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ERRATA. 

Page  14,  sixth  line,  for  "fi-ofn"  read ^rm. 
26,  tenth  line,- for  "  sole"  read  soul. 
62,  tenth  line,  for  "  there"  read  thou. 
72,  sixth  line,  for  "■there"  read  thou. 
77,  third  line,  for  "  Lathay"  read  Cathay. 
80,  eighth  line,  for  "  the"  read  there. 

108,  fourth  line,  for  "  spniig"  read  springs. 

109,  second  line,  for  "  Speak"  read  Spech. 

126,  nineteenth  line,  for  ''humble"  read  humbled. 

134,  fifth  line,  for  "  her"  read  their. 

137,  second  line,  for  "  Their"  read  TAow. 

163,  thirteenth  line,  for  "  of"  read  to. 

164,  seventh  line,  for  "  names"  read  name. 
171,  fifteenth  line,  for  "  the"  read  her. 
187,  seventeenth  line,  for  ''their"  read  <Ae. 
191,  last  line,  for  "  skrieks"  read  shrieks. 


POEMS. 


.    POEMS; 


MRS.   L.   H.   SIGOURNEY. 


KEY  &  BIDDLE,  23  MINOR  STREET. 
1834. 


Entered  according  to  the  act  of  congress,  in  the  year  1834,  by  Key 
&  Biddle,  in  the  office  of  the  clerk  of  the  district  court  of  the  eastern 
district  of  Pennsylvania. 


Philadelphia: 
T.  K.  Collins  &  Co.,  Printers. 
No.  6,  George  Street. 


PREFACE. 

Some  of  the  poems  contained  in  the  present  col- 
lection were  written  at  an  early  age.  Others  inter- 
spersed themselves,  at  later  periods,  amid  domestic 
occupations  or  maternal  cares.  The  greater  part 
were  suggested  by  passing  occasions,  and  partake  of 
the  nature  of  extemporaneous  productions.  All  re- 
veal, by  their  brevity,  the  narrow  intervals  of  time 
which  were  devoted  to  their  composition. 

They  have  sprung  up  like  wild  flowers  in  the 
dells,  or  among  the  clefts  of  the  rock;  wherever 
the  path  of  life  has  chanced  to  lead.  The  hand  that 
gathered  and  now  presents  them,  borrows  for  their 
motto  the  sweetly  eloquent  words  of  Coleridge: 

"  I  expect  from  them  neither  profit  nor  general 
fame;  and  I  consider  myself  amply  repaid  without 
either.     Poetry  has  been  to  me  its  own  exceeding 

A* 


VI  PREFACE. 

great  reward.  It  possesses  power  to  soothe  afflic- 
tion,— to  multiply  and  refine  enjoyment, — to  endear 
solitude,  and  to  give  the  habit  of  discovering  the 
good  and  the  beautiful  in  all  that  meets  or  sur- 
rounds us." 

L.  H.  S. 
Hartford,  Conn.,  May  10,  1834. 


INDEX. 


Connecticut  River, 

Lochleven  Castle, 

Evening  at  Home, 

The  Mohegan  Church, 

Radiant  Clouds  at  Sunset,    . 

Solitude,       .... 

Barzillai,  the  Gileadite, 

Appeal  for  Missions,     . 

Death  of  an  Infant, 

King  John,  .... 

Unchanged  of  the  Tomb,     '. 

Twilight,      .... 

Montpelier,  .... 

Norman  Knights  and  Monks  of 

The  Last  Supper, 

Return  to  Connecticut, 

"  Whither  Shall  I  Flee  from  Thy 

The  Sabbath  Bell, 

Cottage  Scene, 

Boy's  Last  Bequest, 

Greece,         .... 


Ely 


Presence  I 


Page 

.  13 

.  17 

.  19 

.  21 

.  23 

.  24 

.  26 

.  28 

.  30 

.  31 

.  33 

.  35 

.  37 

.  39 

.  42 

.  45 

.  47 

.  49 

.  51 

.  53 

.  54 


VIU  INDEX. 

Gift  of  a  Bible, 55 

Praise, 56 

Death  of  a  Sister  while  absent  at  School,      .         .         .  57 

The  War  Spirit, 59 

Bitterness  of  Death, 61 

Memory  of  a  Young  Lady, 63 

Slavery, 65 

Evening  Thoughts, 67 

To  the  Ocean, 69 

Columbus  before  the  University  of  Salamanca,      .         .  71 

"  Charity  Beareth  all  Things,"     .         .         •         .         .  73 

"  The  Fashion  of  this  World  Passeth  Away,"       .         .  75 
The  Burmans  and  their  Missionary,       .         .         .         .77 

"  Diem  Perdida," 79 

Paul  before  Agrippa, 80 

Appeal  of  the  Blind, _        .         .82 

The  Library, 83 

The  Mother, 85 

Death  of  a  Beautiful  Boy, 86 

Sabbath  Morning, 88 

The  Desert  Flower, 89 

The  South-Georgian  Lark, 91 

Flora's  Party, 93 

Winter,         ••••.....     98 
Last  Word  of  the  Dying, IqO 

Scene  at  the  Death-bed  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Payson,    .         .  103 

Children  of  Henry  First, IO5 

The  Silver  and  the  Gold  are  mine,         ....  108 

Winter  Hymn, HO 

Bernardine  du  Born,     .         .  ....  112 

Cold  Water, II4 


INDEX. 


IX 


African  Mother  at  her  Daughter's  Grave, 

The  Institution, 

Death  of  a  Mother  soon  after  her  Infant  Son, 

Widow  of  Zarephath,  . 

Heaven  Brighter  than  Earth, 

Sudden  Death  of  a  Lady, 

ValJey  of  Jehoshaphat, 

Farewell  to  an  Ancient  Church, 

Consecration  of  a  Church,    . 

The  Dying  Infant, 

Heart  of  King  Robert  Bruce, 

'Twas  but  a  Babe, 

Only  This  Once,  . 

The  Knell,  .... 

The  Liberated  Convict, 

The  Bell  of  St.  Regis, 

The  Angel's  Song, 

The  Martyr  of  Scio,      . 

Alice, 

The  Native  Place, 

Parting  of  a  Mother  with  her  Child, 

Indian  Names, 

The  Coral  Insect, 

Marriage  of  the  Deaf  and  Dumb, 

Mission  Hymn,    . 

The  Poet  Brainerd, 

The  Tomb,  .... 

Thou  hast  made  Desolate  all  my  Company, 

The  Execution,    . 

Morning,      .... 

Baptism  of  an  Infant  at  its  Mother's  Funeral 

The  Lonely  Church, 


UG 
119 
121 
124 
128 
130 
132 
134 
136 
138 
139 
142 
144 
146 
148 
150 
153 
154 
157 
160 
163 
164 
167 
169 
171 
172 
174 
176 
178 
180 
182 
184 


INDEX. 


Intellectual  Wants  of  Greece, 

.  186 

Paul  at  Athens,    .... 

.  187 

The  Disobedient  Son,  . 

.  190 

Blessed  are  the  Dead, 

.   194 

First  Gift  to  the  Indians  at  Albany, 

.  195 

Meeting  of  the  Blind  Pupils,  &c., 

.  197 

Consumptive  Girl, 

.  199 

Creation, 

.  201 

Marriage  Hymn,  .... 

.  203 

Methuselah,          .... 

.  204 

In  the  Garden  was  a  Sepulchre,    . 

.  206 

Death  of  an  Aged  Christian, 

.  207 

Sailor's  Hymn, 

.  209 

Musings,      .         .         . 

.  211 

The  Dying  Philosopher, 

.  214 

Mother  in  Heaven  to  her  Dying  Babe,  . 

.  216 

Tomb  of  Absalom,        .... 

.  217 

The  Lost  Darling,         .... 

.  219 

The  Schoolmistress,     .... 

.  221 

The  Sailor's  Funeral,   .... 

.  223 

Zama,          ...... 

.  225 

Death  of  a  Missionary  to  Liberia, 

.  227 

A  Father  to  his  Motherless  Children,    . 

.  228 

Mourning  Lover,           .         •         .         , 

.  230 

Picture  of  a  Sleeping  Infant,  watched  by  a  D 

og,   • 

.  233 

On  the  Establishment  of  Schools  in  Africa,  . 

.  234 

Rome, 

.  236 

Exhibition  of  a  School  of  Young  Ladies, 

.  239 

I  looked,  and  behold  a  door  was  opened  in  K 

eaver 

1,       .  243 

Passage  of  the  Beresina,       .         .         .         . 

.  242 

Death  of  a  Poet, 

.  246 

Autumn, 

• 

.  247 

INDEX. 


XI 


Scene  at  Athens  during  the  Revolution,         .         .         ,  249 
Deaf,  Dumb,  and  Blind  Girl  Sitting  for  her  Portrait,      .  252 

Death  of  Miss  Hannah  Adams, 254 

Death  of  a  Missionary, 256, 

The  Little  Hand, 258 

Hebrew  Dirge, 260 

Corner  Stone  of  the  Monument, 263 

Dying  Mother's  Prayer, 264 

Dream  of  the  Dead, 266 

To  Bereaved  Parents, 268 

The  Sea,      .         . 269 

The  Second  Birth-day, 271 

On  a  Picture  of  Penitence,    ......  273 

Ark  and  Dove, 274 

Sir  Walter  Scott, 276 

The  Nineteenth  Birth-day, 278 

Death  of  Dr.  Adam  Clarke, 280 

Intemperance, 282 

Thoughts  at  the  Funeral  of  a  Respected  Friend,    .        .  284 
The  Baptism, 286 


r* 


POEMS. 


CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 


Fair  River!  not  unknown  to  classic  song; — 
Which  still  in  varying  beauty  roU'st  along, 
Where  first  thy  infant  fount  is  faintly  seen, 
A  line  of  silver  'mid  a  fringe  of  green  ; 
Or  where  near  towering  rocks  thy  bolder  tide 
To  win  the  giant-guarded  pass  doth  glide ; 
Or  where  in  azure  mantle  pure  and  free 
Thou  giv'st  thy  cool  hand  to  the  fervent  sea. 

Though  broader  streams  our  sister  realms  may  boast, 
Herculean  cities,  and  a  prouder  coast. 
Yet  from  the  bound  where  hoarse  St.  Lawrence  roars 
To  where  La  Plata  rocks  resounding  shores, 
From  where  the  arms  of  slimy  Nilus  shine, 
To  the  blue  waters  of  the  rushing  Rhine, 
Or  where  Ilissus  glows  like  diamond  spark. 
Or  sacred  Ganges  whelms  her  votaries  dark, 
No  brighter  skies  the  eye  of  day  may  see, 
Nor  soil  more  verdant,  nor  a  race  more  free. 

See!  where  amid  their  cultured  vales  they  stand. 
The  generous  offspring  of  a  simple  land ; 
B 


14  CONNECTICUT   RIVER. 

Too  rough  for  flattery,  and  all  fear  above, 

King,  priest  and  prophet  'mid  the  homes  tiiey  love, — 

On  equal  laws  their  anchored  hopes  are  staid, 

By  all  interpreted,  and  all  obeyed, 

Alike  the  despot  and  the  slave  they  hate. 

And  rise  from  columns  of  a  happy  state. 

To  them  content  is  bliss, — and  labour  health, 

And  knovpledge  povi^er,  and  meek  religion,  wealth. 

The  farmer,  here,  with  honest  pleasure  sees 
The  orchards  blushing  to  the  fervid  breeze. 
His  bleating  flocks,  the  shearer's  care  which  need, 
His  waving  woods,  the  wintry  hearth  that  feed, 
His  hardy  steers  that  break  the  yielding  soil. 
His  patient  sons,  who  aid  their  father's  toil. 
The  ripening  fields,  for  joyous  harvest  drest. 
And  the  white  spire  that  points  a  world  of  rest. 

His  thrifty  mate,  solicitous  to  bear 
An  equal  burden  in  the  yoke  of  care. 
With  vigorous  arm  the  flying  shuttle  heaves. 
Or  from  the  press  the  golden  cheese  receives ; 
Her  pastime  when  the  daily  task  is  o'er. 
With  apron  clean,  to  seek  her  neighbour's  door. 
Partake  the  friendly  feast,  with  social  glow. 
Exchange  the  news,  and  make  the  stocking  grow; 
Then  hale  and  cheerful  to  her  home  repair. 
When  Sol's  slant  ray  renews  her  evening  care, 
Press  the  full  udder  for  her  children's  meal. 
Rock  the  tired  babe — or  wake  the  tuneful  wheel. 

See,  toward  yon  dome  where  village  science  dwells, 
When  the  church-clock  its  warning  summons  swells. 
What  tiny  feet  the  well-known  path  explore. 
And  gaily  gather  from  each  rustic  door. 
The  new-weaned  child  with  murmuring  tone  proceeds. 
Whom  her  scarce  taller  baby-brother  leads, 


CONNECTICUT  RIVER.  15 

Transferred  as  burdens,  that  the  housewife's  care 

May  tend  the  dairy,  or  the  fleece  prepare. 

Light-hearted  group  I — who  carol  wild  and  high, 

The  daisy  cull,  or  chase  the  butterfly. 

Or  by  some  traveller's  wheel  aroused  from  play, 

The  stiflT  salute,  with  deep  demureness  pay. 

Bare  the  curled  brow, — or  stretch  the  sunburnt  hand. 

The  home-taught  homage  of  an  artless  land. 

The  stranger  marks  amid  their  joyous  line. 

The  little  baskets  whence  they  hope  to  dine, 

And  larger  books,  as  if  their  dexterous  art. 

Dealt  most  nutrition  to  the  noblest  part : — 

Long  may  it  be,  ere  luxury  teach  the  shame 

To  starve  the  mind,  and  bloat  the  unwieldy  frame. 

Scorn  not  this  lowly  race,  ye  sons  of  pride. 
Their  joys  disparage,  nor  their  hopes  deride; 
From  germs  like  these  have  mighty  statesmen  sprung, 
Of  prudent  counsel,  and  pursuasive  tongue; 
Unblenching  souls,  who  rulsd  the  willing  throng, 
Their  well-braced  nerves,  by  early  labour  strong ; 
Inventive  minds,  a  nation's  wealth  that  wrought, 
And  white  haired  sages,  sold  to  studious  thought, 
Chiefs  whose  bold  step  the  field  of  battle  trod, 
And  holy  men,  who  fed  the  flock  of  God. 

Here,  'mid  the  graves  by  time  so  sacred  made. 
The  poor,  lost  Indian  slumbers  in  the  shade; — 
He,  whose  canoe  with  arrowy  swiftness  clave 
In  ancient  days  yon  pure,  cerulean  wave; 
Son  of  that  Spirit,  whom  in  storms  he  traced. 
Through  darkness  followed — and  in  death  embraced. 
He  sleeps  an  outlaw  'mid  his  forfeit  land, 
And  grasps  the  arrow  in  his  mouldered  hand. 

Here,  too,  our  patriot  sires  v/ith  honour  rest, 
In  Freedom's  cause  who  bared  the  valiant  breast; — 


16  CONNECTICUT  RIVER. 

Sprung  from  their  half-drawn  furrow,  as  the  cry 

Of  threatened  Liberty  went  thrilling  by, 

Looked  to  their  God — and  reared  in  bulwark  round, 

Breasts  free  from  guile,  and  hands  with  toil  embrowned, 

And  bade  a  monarch's  thousand  banners  yield, 

Firm  at  the  plough  and  glorious  in  the  field, 

Lo!  here  they  rest,  who  every  danger  braved. 

Unmarked,  untrophied,  'mid  the  soil  they  saved. 

Round  scenes  like  these  doth  warm  remembrance  glide, 
"Where  emigration  rolls  its  ceaseless  tide, 
On  western  wilds,  which  thronging  hordes  explore. 
Or  ruder  Erie's  serpent-haunted  shore. 
Or  far  Huron,  by  unshorn  forests  crowned, 
Or  red  Missouri's  unfrequented  bound. 
The  exiled  man,  when  midnight  shades  invade, 
Couched  in  his  hut,  or  camping  on  the  glade, 
Starts  from  his  dream,  to  catch,  in  echoes  clear. 
The  boatman's  song  that  charmed  his  boyish  ear; 
"While  the  sad  mother,  'mid  her  children's  mirth 
Paints  with  fond  tears  a  parent's  distant  hearth, 
Or  cheats  her  rustic  babes  with  tender  tales 
Of  thee,  blest  River !  and  thy  velvet  vales; 
Her  native  cot,  where  luscious  berries  swell, 
The  village  school,  and  sabbath's  tuneful  bell, 
And  smiles  to  see  the  infant  soul  expand 
"With  proud  devotion  for  that  fatherland. 


17 


LOCHLEVEN  CASTLE. 


Thou  rude  and  ancient  pile, 

Holding  thy  vigil  lone, 
Amid  the  heath-clad  isle, 

Whore  Leven's  waters  moan, 
Show  me  the  prison-tower 

Of  Scotland's  fairest  queen. 
Who,  reared  in  Gallia's  royal  bower, 

Endured  thy  tyrant  spleen. 

Count  me  the  thousand  sighs 

Her  tortured  bosom  poured. 
The  tears  that  dimmed  those  eyes 

Which  rival  kings  adored, 
Unfold  her  darkened  fate, 

A  haughty  brother's  scorn, 
Of  her  own  native  realm,  the  hate, 

Of  maddened  love,  the  thorn. 

Methinks  a  midnight  boat 

Still  cleaves  yon  silent  tide. 
Its  glimmering  torch-lights  float 

In  mingled  fear  and  pride  ; 
Young  Douglas  wildly  steers, 

His  throbbing  heart  beats  high. 
As  freedom's  long-lost  radiance  cheers 

The  rescued  prisoner's  eye. 

He  sees  no  vision  pale 
Where  axe  and  scaffold  gleam, 


18  LOCHLEVEN  CASTLE. 

He  hears  no  stifled  wail, 

He  marks  no  life-blood  stream. 

With  ill-dissembled  mien, 

Who  wields  yon  vengeful  rod"? 

TVho  made  thee  judge, — thou  English  queen/ 
Her  sins  are  with  her  God. 

Hark  !  from  yon  mouldering  cell 

The  owl  her  shriek  repeats, 
And  all  the  tissued  spell 

Of  wildering  fancy  fleets; 
Lochleven's  ruined  towers 

Once  more  the  moon-beams  flout. 
And  tangled  herbage  chokes  those  bowers 

Whence  the  rich  harp  breathed  out. 

The  lake's  unruffled  breast, 

Expands  like  mirror  clear, 
With  emerald  islets  drest, 

Each  in  its  hermit-sphere; 
Yet,  from  those  fair  retreats 

Do  mournful  memories  flow, 
And  every  murmuring  shade  repeats 

Mary  of  Scotland's  woe. 


19 


EVENING  AT  HOME. 


WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  YOUTH. 


Loud  roars  the  hoarse  storm  from  the  angry  north, 
As  if  the  wintry  spirit,  loth  to  leave 
Its  wonted  haunts,  came  rudely  rushing  on, 
Fast  by  the  steps  of  the  defenceless  Spring, 
To  hurl  his  frost-spear  at  her  shrinking  flowers. 

Yet  while  the  tempest  o'er  the  charms  of  May 
Sweeps  dominant,  and  with  discordant  tone 
The  wild  blast  rules  without,  peace  smiles  within; 
The  fire  burns  cheerful,  and  the  taper  clear 
Alternate  aids  the  needle,  or  illumes 
The  page  sublime,  inciting  the  rapt  soul, 
To  soar  above  the  warring  elements. 
My  gentle  kitten  at  my  footstool  sings. 
Her  song  monotonous,  and  full  of  joy ; 
Close  by  my  side  my  tender  mother  sits, 
Industriously  bent, — her  brow  still  bright 
With  beams  of  lingering  youth,  while  he,  the  sire, 
The  faithful  guide,  indulgently  doth  smile 
At  our  discourse,  or  wake  the  tuneful  hymn 
"Which  best  he  loves. 

Fountain  of  life  and  lio-ht! — 
Father  Supreme  I  from  whom  our  joys  descend, 


20  EVENING  AT  HOME. 

As  streams  flow  from  their  source,  and  unto  whom 

All  good  on  earth  shall  finally  return 

As  to  a  natural  centre,  praise  is  due 

To  thee  from  all  thy  works,  nor  least  from  me, 

Though  in  thy  scale  of  being  light  and  low. 

From  thee  is  shed  whate'er  of  joy  or  peace 
Doth  sparkle  in  my  cup,— health,  hope  and  bliss. 
And  pure  parental  love,  beneath  whose  roof 
My  ever  grateful  heart  doth  feel  no  want 
Of  sister,  or  of  brother,  or  of  friend. 

Therefore,  to  thee  be  all  the  honour  given, 
Whether  young  morning  with  her  vestal  lamp 
Warn  from  my  couch,  or  sober  twilight  gray 
Lead  on  the  willing  night,  or  summer-sky 
Spread  its  smooth  azure,  or  contending  storms 
Muster  their  wrath,  or  whether  in  the  shade 
Of  much  loved  solitude,  deep  wove,  and  close, 
I  rest,  or  gaily  share  the  social  scene, 
Or  wander  wide  to  twine  with  stranger-hearts 
New  sympathies,  or  wheresoever  else 
Thy  hand  may  place  me,  let  my  steadfast  eye 
Behold  thee,  and  my  soul  attune  thy  praise. 
To  thee  alone,  in  humble  trust  I  come. 
For  strength  and  wisdom.     Leaning  on  thine  arm 
Fain  would  I  pass  this  intermediate  state. 
This  vale  of  discipline,  and  when  its  mists 
Shall  fleet  away,  I  trust  thou  wilt  not  leave 
My  soul  in  darkness,  for  thy  word  is  truth, 
Nor  are  thy  thoughts  like  the  vain  thoughts  of  man. 
Nor  thy  ways  like  his  ways. 

Therefore  I  rest 
In  hope,  and  sing  thy  praise,  Father  Supreme ! 


2i 


THE  MOHEGAN  CHURCH. 


A  remnant  of  the  once-powerful  tribe  of  Mohegan  Indians,  have  their 
residence  in  the  vicinity  of  the  city  of  Norwich,  Conn.,  and  on  the  ruins  of 
an  ancient  fort  in  their  teritory,  a  small  church  has  been  erected,— princi- 
pally through  the  influence  of  the  benevolence  of  females. 


Amid  those  hills,  with  verdure  spread, 
The  red-browed  hunter's  arrow  sped, 
And  on  those  waters,  sheen  and  blue. 
He  freely  launch'd  his  light  canoe, 
While  through  the  forests  glanced  like  light 
The  flying  wild-deer's  antler  briglit. 
— Ask  ye  for  hamlet's  people  bound, 
With  cone-roofed  cabins  circled  round  ? 
For  chieftain  grave, — for  warrior  proud, 
In  nature's  majesty  unbowed  ? 
You've  seen  the  fleeting  shadow  fly, 
The  foam  upon  the  billows  die, 
The  floating  vapour  leave  no  trace. 
Such  was  their  path — that  fated  race. 

Say  ye  that  kings,  with  lofty  port. 
Here  held  their  stern  and  simple  court  ? 
That  here,  with  gestures  rudely  bold. 
Stern  orators  the  throng  controlled  % 
— Methinks,  even  now,  on  tempest  wings. 
The  thunder  of  their  war-shout  rings, 
Methinks  springs  up,  with  dazzling  spire, 
The  redness  of  their  council  fire. 


22  THE  MOHEGAN  CHURCH. 

No! — no  ! — in  darkness  rest  the  throng, 
Despair  hath  checked  the  tide  of  song, 

Dust  dimmed  their  glory's  ray, 
But  can  these  staunch  their  bleeding  wrong'? 
Or  quell  remembrance,  fierce  and  strong  ] 

Recording  angel, — say  ! 
I  marked  where  once  a  fortress  frowned. 
High  o'er  the  blood-cemented  ground, 
And  many  a  deed  that  savage  tower 
Might  tell  to  chill  the  midnight  hour. 
But  now,  its  ruins  strongly  bear 
Fruits  that  the  gentlest  hand  might  share  ; 
For  there  a  hallowed  dome  imparts 
The  lore  of  Heaven  to  listening  hearts, 
And  forms,  like  those  which  lingering  staid, 
Latest  'neath  Calvary's  awful  shade, 
And  earliest  pierced  the  gathered  gloom 
To  watch  a  Saviour's  lowly  tomb, 
Such  forms  have  soothed  the  Indian's  ire, 
And  bade  for  him  that  dome  aspire. 

Now,  where  tradition,  ghostly  pale, 
With  ancient  horrors  loads  the  vale, 
And  shuddering  weaves  in  crimson  loom 
Ambush,  and  snare,  and  torture-doom, 
There  shall  the  peaceful  prayer  arise, 
And  tuneful  hymns  invoke  the  skies. 
— Crush'd  race! — so  long  condemned  to  moan, 
Scorn'd — rifled — spiritless — and  lone, 
From  pagan  rites,  from  sorrow's  maze, 
Turn  to  these  temple-gates  with  praise; 
Yes,  turn  and  bless  the  usurping  band 
That  rent  away  your  fathers'  land ; 
Forgive  the  wrong — suppress  the  blame. 
And  view  with  Faith's  fraternal  claim. 
Your  God — your  hope — your  heaven  the  same. 


33 


RADIANT  CLOUDS  AT  SUNSET. 


Bright  Clouds !  ye  are  gathering  one  by  one 
Ye  are  sweeping  in  pomp  round  the  dying  sun, 
With  crimson  banner,  and  golden  pall 
Like  a  host  to  their  chieftain's  funeral; 
Perchance  ye  tread  to  that  hallowed  spot 
With  a  muffled  dirge,  though  we  hear  it  not. 

But  methinks  ye  tower  with  a  lordlier  crest 
And  a  gorgeous  flush  as  he  sinks  to  rest, 
Not  thus  in  the  day  of  his  pride  and  wrath 
Did  ye  dare  to  press  on  his  glorious  path, 
At  his  noontide  glance  ye  have  quaked  with  fear 
And  hasted  to  hide  in  your  misty  sphere. 

Do  yon  say  he  is  dead? — You  exult  in  vain, 
With  your  rainbow  robe  and  your  swelling  train. 
He  shall  rise  again  with  his  strong,  bright  ray, 
He  shall  reign  in  power  when  you  fade  away. 
When  ye  darkly  cower  in  your  vapoury  hall, 
Tintless,  and  naked,  and  noteless  all. 

The  Soul  '.—The  Soul  '.—with  its  eye  of  fire. 
Thus,  thus  shall  it  soar  when  its  foes  expire. 
It  shall  spread  its  wings  o'er  the  ills  that  pained. 
The  evils  that  shadowed,  the  sins  that  stained. 
It  shall  dwell  where  no  rushing  cloud  hath  sway, 
And  the  pageants  of  earth  shall  have  melted  away. 


24 


SOLITUDE. 


Deep  Solitude  I  sought. — There  was  a  dell 
Where  woven  shades  shut  out  the  eye  of  day, 
While  towering  near,  the  rugged  mountains  made 
Dark  back-ground  'gainst  the  sky. 

Thither  I  went, 
And  bade  my  spirit  taste  that  lonely  fount 
For  which  it  long  had  thirsted  'mid  the  strife 
And  fever  of  the  world. — I  thought  to  be 
There  without  witness. — But  the  violet's  eye 
Looked  up  to  greet  me,  the  fresh  wild-rose  smiled, 
And  the  young  pendent  vine-flower  kissed  my  cheek. 
There  were  glad  voices,  too. — The  garrulous  brook, 
Untiring,  to  the  patient  pebbles  told 
Its  history. — Up  came  the  singing  breeze 
And  the  broad  leaves  of  the  cool  poplar  spake 
Responsive,  every  one. — Even  busy  life 
Woke  in  that  dell. — The  dexterous  spider  threw 
From  spray  to  spray  the  silver-tissued  snare. 
The  thrifty  ant,  whose  curving  pincers  pierced 
The  rifled  grain,  toiled  toward  her  citadel. 
To  her  sweet  hive  went  forth  the  loaded  bee. 
While  from  her  wind-rocked  nest,  the  mother-bird 
Sang  to  her  nurslings. — 

Yet  T  strangely  thought 
To  be  alone  and  silent  in  thy  realm. 
Spirit  of  life  and  love  ! — It  might  not  be  ! — 
There  is  no  solitude  in  thy  domains, 


SOLITUDE.  28 

Save  what  man  makes,  when  in  his  selfish  breast 
He  locks  his  joys,  and  shuts  out  others'  grief. 
Thou  hast  not  left  thyself  in  this  wide  world 
Without  a  witness.     Even  the  desert  place 
Speaketh  thy  name.     The  simple  flowers  and  streams 
Are  social  and  benevolent,  and  he 
Who  holdeth  converse  in  their  language  pure, 
Roaming  among  them  at  the  cool  of  day. 
Shall  find,  like  him  who  Eden's  garden  drest, 
His  Maker  there,  to  teach  his  listening  heart. 


26 


BARZILLAI  THE  GILEADITE. 


Let  me  be  buried  by  the  grave  of  my  father  and  of  my  mother. 

2  Samuel,  XIX.  37. 


Son  of  Jesse  ! — let  me  go, 

Why  should  princely  honours  stay  mel — 
Where  the  streams  of  Gilead  flow, 
Where  the  light  first  met  mine  eye, 
Thither  would  I  turn  and  die : — 
Where  my  parent's  ashes  lie, 

King  of  Israel ! — bid  them  lay  me. 

Bury  me  near  my  sire  revered, 
Whose  feet  in  righteous  paths  so  firmly  trod. 
Who  early  taught  my  sole  with  awe 
To  heed  the  Prophets  and  the  Law, 
And  to  my  infant  heart  appeared 
Majestic  as  a  God  : — 
Oh !  when  his  sacred  dust 
The  cerements  of  the  tomh  shall  burst. 
Might  I  be  worthy  at  his  feet  to  rise, 

To  yonder  blissful  skies, 
W'here  angel-hosts  resplendent  shine, 
Jehovah  ! — Lord  of  Hosts,  the  glory  shall  be  thine. 

Cold  age  upon  my  breast 
Hath  shed  a  frost  like  death, 

The  wine-cup  hath  no  zest, 
The  rose  no  fragrant  breath, 


BARZILLAI  THE  GILEADITE.  27 

Music  from  my  ear  hath  fled, 
Yet  still  a  sweet  tone  lingereth  there, 
The  blessing  that  my  mother  shed 
Upon  my  evening  prayer. 
Dim  is  my  wasted  eye 
To  all  that  beauty  brings, 
The  brow  of  grace, — the  form  of  symmetry 

Are  half-forgotten  things  ; — 
Yet  one  bright  hue  is  vivid  still, 
A  mother's  holy  smile  that  soothed  my  sharpest  ill. 

Memory,  with  traitor-tread 

Methinks,  doth  steal  away 
Treasures  that  the  mind  had  laid 

Up  for  a  wintry  day  : — 
Images  of  sacred  power, 
Cherished  deep  in  passion's  hour, 

Faintly  now  my  bosom  stir. 
Good  and  evil  like  a  dream 
Half  obscured  and  shadowy  seem. 
Yet  with  a  changeless  love  my  soul  remembereth  her. 

Yea, — it  remembereth  her, 
Close  by  her  blessed  side,  make  ye  my  sepulchre. 


28 


APPEAL  FOR  MISSIONS. 


Stewards  of  God  !  his  richest  gifts  who  hold, 
Sublime  dispensers  to  your  brother's  need, 

Can  Charity  within  those  breasts  grow  cold, 

Where  Faith  and  Hope  have  sown  their  holy  seed  1 

Hoard  ye  the  stores  of  Heaven  1 — Ah,  then  beware 

Lest  its  pure  manna  turn  to  bitterness  and  care. 

Stewards  of  God  ! — replete  with  living  bread. 

Shall  any  famish  in  your  rosy  path  1 
Have  ye  a  garment  which  ye  will  not  spread 

Around  those  naked  souls  in  Winter's  wrath  1 
Ye  see  them  sink  amid  Destruction's  blast, 
Unmoved  ye  hear  their  cry  ! — What  will  ye  plead  at  last  ? 

Ye  have  that  cup  of  wine  which  Jesus  blest 

At  his  last  supper  with  the  chosen  train; 
Ye  have  a  book  divine,  whose  high  behest 

'  Go,  teach  all  nations,'  sends  its  thrilling  strain 
Into  your  secret  chamber.     Can  it  be 
That  selfishness  enslaves  the  souls  hy  Christ  made  free? 

Do  ye  indeed  on  Time's  tempestuous  shore 

Wear  the  meek  armour  of  the  Crucified  ? 
Yet  stretch  no  hand,  no  supplication  pour. 

To  save  the  fainting  souls  for  whom  he  died  1 
God  of  all  power ! — what  but  thy  Spirit's  flame 
Can  ope  the  eyes  of  those  who  dream  they  love  thy  name  1 

Where  is  your  heathen  brother'? — From  his  grave 
Near  thy  own  gates,  or  'neath  a  foreign  sky, 


APPEAL  FOU   MISSIONS.  2^ 

From  the  tlironged  depths  of  Ocean's  moaning  wave, 

His  answering  blood  reproachfully  doth  cry. 
Blood  of  the  soul ! — Can  all  earth's  fountains  make 
Thy  dark  stain  disappear] — Stewards  of  God  awitke  ! 


C  * 


80 


DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 


Death  found  strange  beauty  on  that  polished  brow 
And  dashed  it  out. — 

There  was  a  tint  of  rose 
On  cheek  and  lip. — He  touched  the  veins  with  ice, 
And  the  rose  faded. — 

Forth  from  those  blue  e3'es 
There  spake  a  wishful  tenderness,  a  doubt 
Whether  to  grieve  or  sleep,  which  innocence 
Alone  may  wear. — With  ruthless  haste  he  bound 
The  silken  fringes  of  those  curtaining  lids 
Forever. — 

There  had  been  a  murmuring  sound, 
With  which  the  babe  would  claim  its  mother's  ear, 
Charming  her  even  to  tears. — The  Spoiler  set 
His  seal  of  silence. — 

But  there  beamed  a  smile 
So  fixed,  so  holy,  from  that  cherub  brow, 
Death  gazed — and  left  it  there. — 

He  dared  not  steal 
The  signtt-ring  of  Heaven. 


31 


KING  JOHN. 


There  stands  on  Runimede  a  king,  whose  name  we  need  not 

tell, 
For  the  blood  of  high  Plantagenet  within  his  veins  doth  swell, 
And  yet  a  sceptred  hand  he  lifts,  to  shade  his  haggard  brow, 
As  if  constrained  to  do  a  deed  his  pride  would  disallow. 

He  pauses  still. — His  faint  eye  rests  upon  those  barons  bold, 

Whose  hands  are  grappling  to  their  swords  with  fierce  and 
sudden  hold, 

That  pause  is  broke. — He  bow^s  him  down  before  those  steel- 
girt  men, 

And  glorious  Magna  Charta  glows  beneath  his  trembling 
pen. 

His  false  lip  to  a  smile  is  wreathed,  as  their  exulting  shout, 
Upon  the  gentle  summer  air,  thro'  the  broad  oaks  peals  out. 
Yet  lingers  long  his  cowering  glance  on  Thames'  translucent 

tide, 
As  if  some  deep  and  bitter  thought  he  from  the  throng  would 

hide. 

I  know  what  visiteth  his  soul,  when  midnight's  heavy  hand. 
Doth  crush  the  emmet  cares  of  day  and  wave  reflection's 

wand, 
Forth  stalks  his  broken-hearted  sire,  wrapt  in  the  grave-robe 

drear. 
And  close  around  the  in  grate's  heart  doth  cling  the  ice  of 

fear. 


32  KING  JOHN. 

I  know  what  sounds  are  in  his  ear,  when  wrathful  tempests 
roll, 

When  God  doth  bid  his  lightnings  search,  his  thunders  try 
the  soul, 

Above  the  blast  young  Arthur's  shriek  doth  make  the  mur- 
derer quake, 

As  if  again  his  guiltless  blood  from  Rouen's  prison  spake. 

But  the'  no  red  volcano  burst  to  whelm  the  men  of  crime. 
No  vengeful  earthquake  fiercely  yawn  to  gorge  them  ere  their 

time, 
Tho'  Earth  for  her  most  guilty  sons  the  festive  board  doth  set, 
The  wine-cup  and  the  opiate  draught, — yet  ne'er  can  Heaven 

forget. 


33 


THE  UNCHANGED  OF  THE  TOMB. 


They  Have  prest  the  valve  of  the  vaulted  tomb, 

And  the  tremulous  sun-beam  falls 
Like  a  stranger's  foot  on  that  cheerless  gloom, 

And  the  dead  in  their  silent  halls- 
Hark  !  to  the  knell  of  a  funeral  train. 

As  on  with  a  measured  tread, 
They  shuddering  plunge  to  the  dark  domain 

Of  the  unsaluting  dead. 

They  have  brought  an  innocent  infant  here 
To  the  charge  of  its  kindred  race. 

But  no  arm  is  stretched  from  their  coffins  drear 
To  fold  it  in  fond  embrace. 

It  hath  come  from  a  mother's  tender  breast. 

She  did  foster  it  night  and  day, 
What  a  fearful  change  to  such  cherished  guest 

Is  this  grim  and  cold  array. 

Her  heart  for  a  double  woe  doth  weep, 

As  it  heaves  with  a  stifled  moan. 
For  her  first-born  lies  in  his  dreamless  sleep 

'Neath  yon  dark-browed  arch  of  stone. 

He  fell  when  the  wintry  tempest  wrecked 
The  wealth  of  the  verdant  plain  ; — 

And  lo  !  ere  the  spring  hath  its  ravage  decked, 
As  a  mourner  she  cometh  again. 


34  THE  UNCHANGED  OF  THE  TOMB. 

He  was  smitten  down  in  his  beauty's  pride, 

In  the  dawn  of  his  manhood's  day, 
But  strong  in  the  faith  of  Him  who  died. 

Was  the  soul  as  it  soared  away. 

She  passeth  on  with  a  ghostly  glide 

Through  the  chilled  and  mouldering  space, 

She  is  drooping  low  at  her  idol's  side 
With  her  wild  eyes  on  his  face. 

But  the  pestilent  damps  of  that  dread  abode, 

Have  breathed  on  a  stainless  cheek, 
And  it  seemed  that  the  warmth  of  the  living  blood 

Through  his  ruby  lips  might  speak. 

And  his  glossy  locks  to  a  fearful  length 

Have  grown  in  that  bed  of  clay. 
In  a  clustering  mesh  they  have  wreathed  their  strength, 

Who  will  part  those  curls  away  ? 

Ah  !  list  to  the  mother's  frantic  tone, 

"  Rise  !  Rise,  my  son  !"  she  cries, 
And  the  mocking  cave  with  a  hollow  groan 

"  My  Son  !— My  Son !"— replies. 

They  have  led  her  away  in  her  deep  despair. 

She  hath  wept  till  her  eye  is  dim. 
Your  dear  one  is  risen  ! — he  is  not  there  ! — 

Say,  what  is  the  tomb  to  him  1 

Look  to  the  flight  of  the  spirit's  wing 

Through  the  glorious  fields  of  air, 
Look  to  the  world  where  the  angels  sing, 

And  see  that  ye  meet  him  there. 


35 


TWILIGHT. 


I  WOULD  ye  had  not  glared  on  me  so  soon, 
Officious  lamps  ! — that  gild  the  parlour  scene 
With  such  oppressive  brightness. — They  were  here 
Whose  garments  like  the  tissue  of  our  dreams 
Steal  o'er  the  eye,  and  win  it  from  the  world. 
They  smiled  on  me  so  sweetly,  and  their  hands 
Clasped  mine,  and  their  calm  presence  wooed  away 
The  throb  of  grief  so  tenderly, — I  would 
That  twilight  to  the  purple  peep  of  dawn 
Had  kindly  lingered. — 

She,  who  nearest  hung. 
Pressing  my  head  to  her  meek,  matron  breast, 
Was  one  who  lulled  me  to  my  cradle  sleep, 
With  such  blest  melodies  as  memory  pours 
Fresh  from  her  echo-harp,  when  the  fond  heart 
Asks  for  its  buried  joys. — Slow  years  have  sown 
Rank  rooted  herbage  o'er  her  lowly  couch 
Since  she  arose  to  chant  that  endless  song 
Which  hath  no  dissonance. — 

Another  form 
Sat  at  her  feet,  whose  brow  was  bright  with  bloom 
When  the  cold  grave  shut  o'er  it. — It  hath  left 
Its  image  every  where,  upon  my  books, 
My  bower  of  musing,  and  my  page  of  thought, 
And  the  lone  altar  of  the  secret  soul. — 
Would  that  those  lips  had  spoken  ! — yet  I  hear 
Always  their  ring-dove  murmuring,  when  I  tread 
Our  wonted  shady  haunts. — 


36  TWILIGHT. 

Say,  is  there  aught 
Like  the  tried  friendship  of  the  sacred  dead  ? 
It  cannot  hide  its  face,  it  changeth  not. 
Grieves  not,  suspects  not,  may  not  fleet  away. 
For  as  a  seal  upon  the  melted  heart 
Tis  set  forever. — Sure  'tis  weak  to  mourn 
Though  thorns  are  at  the  bosom,  or  the  blasts 
Of  this  bleak  world  beat  harshly,  if  there  come 
Such  angel-visitants  at  even-tide. 
Or  midnight's  holy  hush,  to  cleanse  away 
The  stains  which  day  hath  gathered,  and  with  touch 
Pure  and  ethereal  to  sublimate 
The  erring  spirit. 


37 


MONTPELIER. 


THE   RESIDENCE    OF    JAMES    MADISON,    ESQ.,    EX-PRESIDENT    OF 
THE  UNITED  STATES. 

How  fair  beneath  Virginia's  sky, 
Montpelier  strikes  the  traveller's  eye, 
Emerging  from  its  forest  bower, 
Like  feudal  chieftain's  ancient  tower. 
With  parks  and  lawns  and  gardens  drest, 
In  peaceful  verdure  proudly  blest. 

What  blended  beauties  cheer  the  sight ! 
The  distant  mountains'  misty  height. 
The  circling  prospect's  cultured  bound. 
The  attic  temple's  echoing  round, 
The  locust  copse  where  warblers  throng, 
And  gaily  pour  the  unfettered  song. 
The  flowers  in  bright  profusion  seen. 
The  luscious  fig's  luxuriant  green. 
The  clasping  vine,  whose  clusters  fair 
Seem  as  of  genial  France  the  care. 
The  bright-eyed  pheasant,  beauteous  guest. 
The  eastern  bird,  with  gorgeous  vest. 
Still  for  his  mimic  speech  carest. 
The  curtaining  jessamine  that  showers 
Rich  fragrance  o'er  the  nightly  bowers, 
Those  halls,  whose  varied  stores  impart 
The  classic  pencil's  magic  art, 

D 


38  MONTPELIER. 

The  chisel's  life-bestowing  power, 
The  lore  that  cheats  the  studious  hour, 
And  music's  strains,  that  vainly  vie 
With  the  touched  spirit's  melody — 
How  strong  the  tissued  spells  that  bind 
The  lingering  eye,  and  charmed  mind. 

Here  wisdom  rests  in  sylvan  shade. 
That  erst  an  empire's  councils  swayed, 
And  goodness  whose  persuasive  art 
So  justly  won  that  empire's  heart, 
And  piety,*  with  hoary  hair, 
Who,  rising  o'er  this  Eden  fair, 
Beholds,  by  mortal  foot  untrod, 
A  brighter  Eden  with  its  God. 

Montpelier ! — these  thy  name  have  set 
A  gem  in  memory's  coronet. 
Whose  lustre  ruthless  time  shall  spare. 
Till  from  her  brow  that  crown  he  tear — 
Till  from  her  book  that  page  he  rend. 
Which  of  a  stranger  made  a  friend. 

*  The  venerable  mother  of  President  Madison,  who  survived,  honoured 
and  beloved,  until  past  the  age  of  ninety  years. 


39 


NORMAN  KNIGHTS  AND  MONKS  OF  ELY. 


After  the  accession  of  William  the  Conquerer,  in  1066,  some  noblemen 
took  refuge  in  the  monastery  of  Ely,  and  continued  for  several  years  to 
maintain  it,  against  his  jurisdiction.  When  it  was  reduced  to  subjection, 
he  placed  a  band  of  Norman  kiiiglUs  there,  to  check  its  contumacy,  and  to 
evince  his  displeasure.  But  contrary  to  his  expectation,  a  vivid  friendship 
sprang  up  between  them  and  the  monks,  and  when  at  the  expiration  of  five 
years  they  were  recalled,  the  parting  was  with  mutual  grief.  As  an  em- 
blem of  their  continued  attachment,  the  arms  of  each  knight,  quartered 
with  those  of  his  favourite  monastic  friend,  were  painted  on  the  walls  of 
the  banqueting-hall.  An  engraving  of  these  singular  heraldic  devices  is 
preserved  in  Fuller's  Church  History,  from  whence  this  statement  is  also  de- 
rived. 

They  came. — The  plumed  casque  shone  bright 

In  Ely's  cloistered  bower, 
And  darkly  on  each  Norman  knight 

Did  monkish  visage  lower  ; 
Even  'midst  the  vesper's  holy  strain 

A  hatred,  ill  represt, 
Frowned  from  the  cowled  and  mitred  train, 

On  such  unwonted  guest. 

Years  held  their  course — and  friendship's  spell, 

That  sternest  hearts  controls. 
With  soft,  cementing  influence  fell 

On  uncongenial  souls. 
No  more  the  British  friar  feared 

The  mirth  of  foreign  lays. 
Nor  the  gay  knight  the  legend  'jur'd 

Of  Etheldreda's*  praise. 

*  The  daughter  of  the  king  of  East-Anglia,  who  founded  this  institution 
in  673. 


40  NORMAN  KNIGHTS  AND  MONKS  OP  ELY, 

"With  helm  and  spear-point  flashing  high, 

The  tournay's  mimic  pride, 
They  traced,  where  Ouse  ran  murmuring  hy 

With  pure  and  glittering  tide. 
Yea,  even  the  abbot,  grave  and  old. 

His  stern  rebuke  would  spare. 
Since  every  Warrior  rudely  bold, 

Knelt  low  at  mass  and  prayer. 

In  troublous  times,  these  martial  guests 

Protection  might  bestow. 
And  kindness  won  even  steel-clad  breasts 

To  love  a  stranger  foe. 
So,  when  the  royal  mandate  bade 

Forth  from  those  walls  to  go, 
And  quit  old  Ely's  hallowed  shade. 

Each  warrior  drooped  with  wo. 

Silent  and  slow,  as  loth  to  part. 

The  long  procession  sped. 
While  arm  in  arm  and  heart  to  heart, 

Each  monk  his  soldier  led. 
On  cope  and  cross  and  banner  proud 

The  western  sunbeam  fell, 
As  'neath  old  Hadenham's  oaks  they  bowed 

To  take  a  last  farewell. 

The  holy  brethren,  sad  and  grieved, 

Resumed  their  duties  meek. 
While  the  chill  tear  from  hearts  bereaved 

Went  coursing  down  their  cheek  ; 
And  when  upon  the  escutcheoned  wall 

Those  blended  arms  they  viewed, 
Both  lonely  cell  and  lighted  hall. 

The  parting  pang  renewed. 

'Mid  Norman  fields  in  bloody  fray 
The  knights  their  prowess  tried. 


NORMAN  KNIGHTS  AND  MONKS  OF  ELY.  41 

Where  stout  King  William  sought  to  stay- 
Duke  Robert's  rebel  pride. 

Yet  still  those  Christian  precepts  blest, 
Learned  in  monastic  bower, 

Held  mastery  o'er  their  rugged  breasts. 
In  war's  destructive  hour. 

And  when  the  piercing  cry  "  to  save''' 

Was  heard  through  battle  strife. 
Their  planted  creed  of  mercy  gave 

The  fallen  suppliant  life  : — 
While  still  the  merry  Norman  song 

Rose  up  prolonged  and  clear, 
Those  sombre  halls  and  cells  among-. 

When  wintry  nights  were  drear. 

For  friendship  hath  a  magic  spell 

The  affinities  to  find, 
That  in  opposing  natures  dwell, 

And  link  the  wayward  mind  : — 
She  bade  the  men  of  blood,  no  more 

The  sons  of  peace  revile, 
And  woke  in  haunts  of  cloistered  lore 

The  sad  ascetic's  smile. 


42 


THE  LAST  SUPPER. 


A  PICTURE  BY  LEONARDI  DA  VINCI. 

Behold  that  countenance,  where  grief  and  love 
Blend  with  ineffable  benignity, 
And  deep,  unuttered  majesty  divine. 

Whose  is  that  eye  which  seems  to  read  the  heart, 
And  yet  to  have  shed  the  tear  of  mortal  woe  1 — 
Redeemer,  is  it  thine  ?— And  is  this  feast. 
Thy  last  on  earth  1 — Why  do  the  chosen  few. 
Admitted  to  thy  parting  banquet,  stand 
As  men  transfixed  with  horror? — 

Ah !  I  hear 
The  appalling  answer,  from  those  lips  divine, 
'One  of  you  shall  betray  me."  — 

One  of  these? — 
Who  by  thy  hand  was  nurtured,  heard  thy  prayers, 
Received  thy  teachings,  as  the  thirsty  plant 
Turns  to  the  rain  of  summer? — One  of  these  ! — 
Therefore,  with  deep  and  deadly  paleness  droops 
The  loved  disciple,  as  if  life's  warm  spring 
Chilled  to  the  ice  of  death,  at  such  strange  shock 
Of  unimagined  guilt. — See,  his  whole  soul 
Concentered  in  his  eye,  the  man  who  walked 
The  waves  with  Jesus,  all  impetuous  prompts 
The  horror-struck  inquiry, — "  Is  it  I? 


THE  LAST  SUPPER.  43 

Lord! — Is  it  /.-"  wliilo  earnest  pressing  near, 

His  brother's  lip,  in  ardent  echo  seems 

Doubting  the  fearful  thought. — With  brow  upraised, 

Andrew  absolves  his  soul  of  charge  so  foul. 

And  springing  eager  from  the  table's  foot, 

Bartholomew  bends  forward,  full  of  hope. 

That  by  his  ear,  the  Master's  awful  words 

Had  been  misconstrued. — To  the  side  of  Christ, 

James  in  the  warmth  of  cherished  friendship  clings, 

Yet  trembles  as  the  traitor's  image  steals 

Into  his  throbbing  heart : — while  he,  whose  hand 

In  sceptic  doubt  was  soon  to  probe  the  wounds 

Of  Him  he  loved,  points  upward  to  invoke 

The  avenging  God. — Philip,  with  startled  gaze, 

Stands  in  his  crystal  singleness  of  soul. 

Attesting  innocence,  while  Matthew's  voice 

Repeating  fervently  the  Master's  words 

Rouses  to  agony  the  listening  group. 

Who,  half  incredulous  with  terror,  seem 

To  shudder  at  his  accents. 

All  the  twelve 
With  strong  emotion  strive,  save  one  false  breast 
By  Mammon  seared,  which  brooding  o'er  its  gain, 
Weighs  thirty  pieces  ivith  the  Saviour''s  Mood. 
Son  of  perdition! — dost  thou  freely  breathe 
In  such  pure  atmosphere  % — And  canst  thou  hide, 
'Neath  the  cold  calmness  of  that  settled  brow. 
The  burden  of  a  deed  whose  very  name 
Thus  strikes  thy  brethren  pale  1 — 

But  can  it  be 
That  the  strange  power  of  this  soul-harrowing  scene 
Is  the  slight  pencil's  witchery? — I  v^rould  speak 
Of  him  who  pour'd  such  bold  conception  forth 
O'er  the  dead  canvas. — But  I  dare  not  muse, 
Now,  of  a  mortal's  praise. — Subdued  I  stand 


44  THE   LAST  SUPPER. 

In  thy  sole,  sorrowing  presence,  Son  of  God  ! — 
I  feel  the  breathing  of  those  holy  men, 
From  whom  thy  gospel,  as  on  angel's  wing 
Went  out,  through  all  the  earth.— I  see  how  deep 
Sin  in  the  soul  may  lurk,  and  fain  would  kneel 
Low  at  thy  blessed  feet,  and  trembling  ask— 
"  Lord  .'—is  it  /?" 

For  who  may  tell,  what  dregs 
Do  slumber  in  his  breast. —  Thou,  who  didst  taste 
Of  man's  infirmities,  yet  bar  his  sins 
From  thine  unspotted  soul,  forsake  us  not. 
In  our  temptations,  but  so  guide  our  feet, 
That  our  Last  Supper  in  this  world  may  lead 
To  that  immortal  banquet  by  thy  side, 
Where  there  is  no  betrayer. 


45 


RETURN  TO  CONNECTICUT. 


Hail  native  Earth  ! — from  brighter  climes  returning, 
From  richer  scenes  the  ravished  eye  that  cheer, 

From  palace  roofs,  and  skies  with  glory  burning, 
Where  changeless  Summer  decks  the  joyous  year 

With  golden  fruits,  and  verdure  never  sere- 
Still  leaps  my  heart  to  mark  thy  rugged  crest, 

Thy  village  spires,  and  mansions  rude,  though  dear; 
Still  to  my  fervent  lip  thy  sod  is  prest. 

As  the  weaned  infant  clings  close  to  its  mother's  breast. 

Thou  hast  no  mountain  peering  to  the  cloud. 

No  boundless  river  for  the  poet's  lyre. 
Nor  mighty  cataract  thundering  far  and  loud, 

Nor  red  volcano,  opening  through  its  pyre 
A  safety-valve  to  earth's  deep,  central  fire ; 

Nor  dread  glacier  nor  forest's  awful  frown, 
Yet  turn  thy  sons  to  thee  with  fond  desire. 

And  from  Niagara's  pride,  or  Andes'  crown, 
In  thy  scant,  noteless  vales,  delight  to  lay  them  down. 

Thou  art  a  Spartan  mother,  and  from  sleep 

Thy  hardy  sons  at  early  dawn  dost  call. 
Though  winds  or  storms,  a  sullen  vigil  keep. 

Some  goodly  task  proportioning  to  all. 
Warning  to  fly  from  sloth  and  folly's  thrall, 

And  patient  meet  the  tempest  or  the  thorn  ; 
Nor  ermine  robe  thou  giv'st,  nor  silken  pall, 

Nor  gilded  boon  of  bloated  luxury  born 
To  bid  the  pampered  soul  its  lowly  brother  scorn. 


46  RETURN  TO  CONNECTICUT. 

Yet  hath  bold  science  in  thy  sterile  bed 

Struck  a  deep  root,  and  though  wild  blasts  recoil, 
The  arts  their  winged  and  feathery  seeds  have  spread 

For  hardened  hands  embrowned  with  peasant  toil 
To  pluck  their  delicate  flowers ;  and  while  the  soil 

Their  plough  hath  broken,  some  the  Muse  have  hailed, 
Smit  with  her  love  'raid  poverty's  turmoil, 

And  like  the  seer  by  angel-might  assailed 
Wrestled  till  break  of  day,  and  then  like  him  prevailed. 

Yet  humbler  virtues  throw  their  guard  around 

Thy  rocky  coast,  and  'mid  the  autumn  leaves 
That  falling  rustle  with  a  solemn  sound. 

His  magic  spell  a  hidden  spirit  weaves. 
Nursed  'neath  the  peaceful  shade  of  cottage-eaves, 

By  voice  of  sabbath-bell  from  hallowed  dome, 
And  breath  of  household  prayer  which  Heaven  receives, 

It  binds  around  the  heart  of  ihose  who  roam 
The  patriot's  stainless  shields,  the  sacred  love  of  home. 

The  love  of  home  /—that  plant  of  fearless  birth, 

From  arid  Afric's  burning  soil  it  springs, 
'Mid  icy  Labrador's  uncultured  earth. 

Or  tropic  Asia,  where  the  serpent  stings ; 
To  naked  hordes  it  gives  the  wealth  of  kings. 

Though  lava  bursts,  or  earthquakes  threaten  loud. 
Still  to  its  bed  that  plant  undaunted  clings. 

Makes  the  child  glad,  the  toiling  father  proud, 
And  decks  with  Eden's  wreath  the  white  haired  grandsire's 
shroud. 


47 


"WHITHER   SHALL  I  FLEE    FROM  THY 
PRESENCE  r' 

Psalm  CXXXIX. 

Take  morning's  wing,  and  fly  from  zone  to  zone, 

To  Earth's  remotest  pole,  and  ere  old  Time 

Can  shift  one  figure  on  his  dial  plate 

Haste  to  the  frigid  Thule  of  mankind, 

Where  the  scant  life-drop  freezes. — Or  go  down 

To  Ocean's  secret  caverns,  'mid  the  thronof 

Of  monsters  without  number,  which  no  foot 

Of  man  hath  visited,  and  yet  returned 

To  walk  among  the  living, — Or  the  shroud 

Of  midnight  wrap  around  thee,  dense  and  deep, 

Bidding  thy  spirit  slumber. — 

Hop'st  thou  thus 
To  'scape  the  Almighty,  to  whose  piercing  eye 
Morn's  robe  and  midnight's  vestment  are  the  same  1 

Spirit  of  truth  ! — why  should  we  seek  to  hide 
Motive  or  deed  from  thee  1 — why  strive  to  walk 
In  a  vain  show  before  our  fellow  men. 
Since  at  the  same  dread  audit  each  must  stand, 
And  with  a  sun-ray  read  his  brother's  breast 
While  his  own  thoughts  are   weighed  1 — Search  thou  my 

soul ! — 
And  if  aught  evil  lurk  securely  there 
Like  Achan's  stolen  hoard,  command  it  thence, 


48  WHITHER  SHALL  I  FLEE  ? 

And  hold  me  up  in  singleness  of  heart, 
And  simple,  child-like  confidence  in  Thee, 
Till  time  shall  close  his  labyrinth,  and  ope 
Eternity's  broad  gate. 


49 


THE   SABBATH   BELL. 


Where  'mid  the  crowded  city  glide 
The  gorgeous  trains  of  pomp  and  pride, 
Till  even  the  labouring  pavement  groans 
As  Folly's  surges  wear  the  stones, 
And  through  the  reeking  air  doth  rise 
The  tide  of  Fashion's  heartless  sighs — 
What  speaks  from  tower  and  turret  fair. 

With  solemn  knell  1 
To  break  the  despotism  of  care, 
And  fearless  warn  the  proud  to  prayer  1 

The  Sabbath  Bell. 

From  yonder  cottage-homes  where  meet, 
Round  the  low  eaves,  the  woodbine  sweet. 
And  the  young  vine-flower  peering  through 
The  rustic  rose-hedge  rich  with  dew. 
Pours  on  each  passing  Zephyr's  breast 
A  gush  of  fragrance  pure  and  blest ; 
What  lures  gay  childhood's  throngs  away  1 
Why  quit  they  thus  at  morning  ray 

Their  native  dell  1 
What  lures  them  to  God's  temple  door, 
Their  holy  lessons  conning  o'er  1 

The  Sabbath  Bell  ? 

The  chastened  spirit,  worn  with  care. 
That  scarce  can  lift  its  burdened  prayer 
Above  the  host  of  toils  that  thrust 
Its  broken  pinion  down  to  dust, 


50  THE  SABBATH  BELL. 

That  loves  the  path  where  faith  doth  rise 
In  contemplation  to  the  skies, 
Yet  bowed  beneath  a  hopeless  chain 
Betakes  it  to  its  task  again ; 

What  bids  its  rapture  swell? 
What  brings,  though  tear-drops  dim  the  eye. 
Communion  with  its  native  sky  1 

The  Sabbath  Bell. 

And  thou,  whose  glance  of  rapid  ray 
Dost  lightly  scan  this  simple  lay, 
When  to  thy  view  yon  astral  spark, 
And  earthly  skies  and  suns  are  dark, 
What  to  the  fair  and  lighted  hall 
Where  cherished  friends  hold  festival ; 
What  to  the  pensive,  listening  ear, 

•    Shall  thy  death-tidings  tell  ] 
And  summon  to  thy  lowly  bier 
The  bursting  sigh,  the  bitter  tear] 

The  Sabbath  Bell. 


61 


A  COTTAGE   SCENE. 


I  SAW  a  cradle  at  a  cottage  door, 
Where  the  fair  mother  with  her  cheerful  wheel 
Carolled  so  sweet  a  song,  that  the  young  bird, 
Which  timid  near  the  threshold  sought  for  seeds, 
Paused  on  his  lifted  foot,  and  raised  his  head. 
As  if  to  listen.     The  rejoicing  bees 
Nestled  in  throngs  amid  the  woodbine  cups. 
That  o'er  the  lattice  clustered.     A  clear  stream 
Came  leaping  from  its  sylvan  height,  and  poured 
Music  upon  the  pebbles, — and  the  winds 
Which  gently  'mid  the  vernal  branches  played 
Their  idle  freaks,  brought  showering  blossoms  down, 
Surfeiting  earth  with  sweetness. 

Sad  I  came 
From  weary  commerce  with  the  heartless  world. 
But  when  I  felt  upon  my  Vv'ithered  cheek 
My  mother  Nature's  breath, — and  heard  the  trump 
Of  those  gay  insects  at  their  honied  toil. 
Shining  like  winged  jewelry, — and  drank 
The  healthful  odour  of  the  flowering  trees 
And  bright-eyed  violets; — but  most  of  all, 
When  I  beheld  mild  slumbering  Innocence, 
And  on  that  young  maternal  brow  the  smile 
Of  those  affections  which  do  purify 
And  renovate  the  soul,  I  turned  me  back 
In  gladness,  and  with  added  strength  to  run 


52  A  COTTAGE  SCEXE. 

My  weary  race — lifting  a  thankful  prayer 

To  Him  who  showed  me  some  bright  tints  of  Heaven 

Here  on  the  earth,  that  I  might  safer  walk 

And  firmer  combat  sin,  and  surer  rise 

From  earth  to  Heaven. 


53 


THE  BOY'S  LAST  BEQUEST. 


Half-raised  upon  his  dying  couch,  his  head 
Drooped  o'er  his  mother's  bosom, — like  a  bud 
Which,  broken  from  its  parent  stalk,  adheres 
By  some  attenuate  fibre.     His  thin  hand 
From  'neath  the  downy  pillow  drew  a  book 
And  slowly  prest  it  to  his  bloodless  lip. 

"  Mother,  dear  mother,  see  your  birth-day  gift, 
Fresh  and  unsoiled.     Yet  have  I  kept  your  word, 
And  ere  1  slept  each  night,  and  every  morn, 
Did  read  its  pages  with  my  humble  prayer. 
Until  this  sickness  came." 

He  paused — for  breath 
Came  scantly,  and  with  a  toilsome  strife. 
"  Brother  or  sister  have  I  none,  or  else 
I'd  lay  this  Bible  on  their  heart,  and  say, 
Come  read  it  on  my  grave,  among  the  flowers  : 
So  you  who  gave  must  take  it  back  again. 
And  love  it  for  my  sake."     "  My  son  ! — My  son  !" 
Whispered  the  mourner  in  that  tender  tone 
Which  woman  in  her  sternest  agony 
Commands,  to  soothe  the  pang  of  those  she  loves — 

"  The  soul .' — the  soul! — to  whose  charge  yield  you  that?" 
"  To  God  who  gave  it.''^     So  that  trusting  soul, 
With  a  slight  shudder,  and  a  lingering  smile, 
Left  the  pale  clay  for  its  Creator's  arms. 


54 


GREECE. 


Up,  thou  New  World  '.—The  eye  of  Greece  is  dark. 

Her  glory  waneth,     "When  she  sat  enthroned 

On  the  Acropolis,  and  heard  the  lore 

Of  Pallas  echoing  through  the  Academe, 

Thou  wert  a  savage  with  thy  hunter  bow 

And  feathery  cincture.     Now  in  dust  she  sit8. 

Weary  and  sad  of  heart.     She  may  not  skill  to  read 

Her  Fathers  book.     Thou,  who  from  her  hast  caught 

The  spirit  of  Harmodius,  and  sat  down 

Low  at  the  feet  of  Socrates,  and  soared 

High  with  ethereal  Plato,  and  hast  knelt 

And  thrilled,  and  wept,  and  trembled,  as  the  lyre 

Of  mighty  Homer  smote  thy  wondering  soul — 

Up,  pay  thy  debt.     Restore  her  more  than  all 

The  burning  alphabet  of  eloquence 

Or  the  proud  language  of  the  arts  could  teach : 

Yea,  give  the  key  of  knowledge,  and  with  gems 

Drawn  from  the  Gospel's  everlasting  mine, 


55 


GIFT  OF  A  BIBLP:. 


Behold  that  Book, — o'er  which,  from  ancient  time, 
Sad  penitence  hath  poured  the  prayerful  breath, 

And  meek  devotion  bowed  with  joy  sublime, 
And  Nature  armed  her  for  the  strife  of  death. 

And  trembling  Hope  renewed  her  wreath  divine, 

And  Faith  an  anchor  gained  : — tJMt  holy  Booh  is  thine. 

Behold  the  Book, — whose  sacred  truths  to  spread 
Christ's  heralds  toil  beneath  a  foreign  sky, 

Pouring  its  blessings  o'er  the  heathen's  head, 
A  martyr-courage  kindling  in  their  eye. 

Wide  o'er  the  globe  its  glorious  light  must  shine, 

As  glows  the  arch  of  Heaven: — that  holy  Book  is  thine. 

Here  search  with  humble  heart,  and  ardent  eye, 
Where  plants  of  peace  in  bloom  celestial  grow, 

Here  breathe  to  Mercy's  ear  the  contrite  sigh, 
And  bid  the  soul's  unsullied  fragrance  flow. 

To  Him  who  shuts  the  rose  at  even-tide. 

And  opes  its  dewy  eye  when  earliest  sunbeams  glide. 

May  Heaven's  pure  Spirit  touch  thy  youthful  heart, 
And  guide  thy  feet  through  life's  eventful  lot, 

That  when  from  this  illusive  scene  I  part. 
And  in  my  grave  lie  mouldering  and  forgot. 

This  my  first  gift,  like  golden  link  may  join 

Thee  to  that  angel-band  around  the  throne  divine. 


56 


PRAISE. 


Put  forth  your  leafy  lutes, — ye  wind-swept  trees, 

For  well  the  sighing  summer  gales  do  love 

To  play  upon  them.     Often  have  I  heard, 

When  in  sweet  freshness  came  the  gentle  shower, 

That  pensive  music  at  the  fall  of  eve. 

And  blest  it  in  my  loneliness  of  soul. 

Call  forth,  thou  peopled  grass,  those  weak-voiced  tribes 

That  nest  beneath  thy  waving  canopy. 

To  wake  their  chirping  chorus, — while  thy  sigh 

In  whispered  symphony  the  cadence  fills. 

Utter  your  oral  melody,  ye  streams, 

As  swift  of  foot,  your  mazy  course  you  run, 

To  the  cool  pillow  of  some  mightier  tide. 

And  thou,  old  Ocean ! — robed  in  solemn  state, 

Yield  thy  deep  organ  to  the  tempest's  will, 

And  with  the  surges  and  the  sweeping  blasts 

Pour  such  bold  voluntary,  that  the  stars 

Stooping  to  listen  to  thy  thunder-hymn 

Shall  tremble  in  their  spheres. 

Heart  / — strike  thy  harp  ! 

Join  the  full  anthem  of  Creation's  praise, 

Ere  thou  shalt  pour  thy  life-breath  on  the  winds. 

And  sleep  the  sleep  of  silence  and  the  grave. 


57 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  SISTER,  WHILE  ABSENT 

AT  SCHOOL. 


Sweet  Sister, — is  it  sol     And  shall  I  see 

Thy  face  on  earth  no  more  "?     And  didst  thou  hreatlie 

The  last  sad  pang  of  agonizing  life 

Upon  a  stranger's  pillow  1     No  kind  hand. 

Of  parent  or  of  sister,  near  to  press 

Thy  throbbing  temples,  when  the  shuddering  dew 

Stood  thick  upon  them  1     And  they  say  my  name 

Hung  on  thy  lips  'mid  the  chill,  parting  strife. 

Ah  ! — those  were  hallowed  memories  that  could  stir 

Thy  bosom  thus  in  death.     The  tender  song 

Of  cradle-nurture, — the  low,  lisping  prayer, 

Learned  at  our  mother's  knee, — the  childish  sport, 

The  gift  divided,  and  the  parted  cake — 

Our  walk  to  school  amid  the  dewy  grass — 

Our  sweet  flower-gatherings, — all  those  cloudless  hours 

Together  shared,  did  wake  a  love  so  strong 

That  Time  must  yield  it  to  Eternity 

For  its  full  crown.     Would  it  had  been  my  lot 

But  with  one  weeping  prayer  to  gird  thy  heart 

For  its  last  conflict.     Would  that  I  had  seen 

That  peaceful  smile  which  Death  did  leave  thy  clay. 

After  his  conquest  o'er  it.     But  the  turf 

On  thy  lone  grave  was  trodden — while  I  deemed 

Thee  meekly  musing  o'er  the  classic  page. 

Loving  and  loved  amid  the  studious  band 

As  erst  I  left  thee. 


58  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  SISTER. 

Sister ! — toils  and  ills 
Henceforth  are  past,  for  knowledge  without  pain, 
A  free,  translucent,  everlasting  tide. 
Doth  fill  thy  spirit.     Thou  no  more  hast  need 
Of  man's  protecting  arm, — for  thou  may'st  lean 
On  His  unchanging  throne,  who  was  thy  trust 
Even  from  thine  early  days.     'Tis  well !     'Tis  well ! 
Saviour  of  souls  ! — /  thank  thee  for  her  bliss. 


59 


THE  WAR-SPIRIT. 


War-Spirit!  War-Spirit!  how  gorgeous  thy  path, 
Pale  Earth  shrinks  with  fear  from  thy  chariot  of  wrath, 
The  king  at  thy  beckoning  comes  down  from  his  throne. 
To  the  conflict  of  fate  the  armed  nations  rush  on, 
With  the  trampling  of  steeds,  and  the  trumpet's  wild  cry, 
While  the  folds  of  their  banners  gleam  bright  o'er  the  sky. 

Thy  glories  are  sought,  till  the  life-throb  is  o'er. 
Thy  laurels  pursued,  though  they  blossom  in  gore, 
Mid  the  ruins  of  columns  and  temples  sublime. 
The  arch  of  the  hero  doth  grapple  with  time ; 
The  Muse  o'er  thy  form  throws  her  tissue  divine, 
And  History  her  annal  emblazons  with  thine. 

War-Spirit!  War-Spirit!  thy  secrets  are  known, 

I  have  looked  on  the  field  when  the  battle  was  done. 

The  mangled  and  slain  in  their  misery  lay. 

And  the  vulture  was  shrieking  and  watching  his  prey; 

But  the  heart's  gush  of  sorrow,  how  hopeless  and  sore, 

In  the  homes  that  those  loved  ones  revisit  no  more. 

I  have  traced  out  thy  march,  by  its  features  of  pain. 

While  Famine  and  Pestilence  stalked  in  thy  train. 

And  the  trophies  of  sin  did  thy  victory  swell. 

And  thy  breath  on  the  soul,  was  the  plague-spot  of  hell; 

Death  lauded  thy  deeds,  and  in  letters  of  flame 

The  realm  of  perdition  recorded  thy  name. 


60  THE    WAR-SPIRIT. 

War-Spirit!   War-Spirit!  go  down  to  thy  place, 
With  the  demons  that  thrive  on  the  woe  of  our  race; 
Call  back  thy  strong  legions  of  madness  and  pride, 
Bid  the  rivers  of  blood  thou  hast  opened  be  dried — 
Let  thy  league  with  the  grave  and  Aceldama  cease. 
And  yield  the  torn  world  to  the  Angel  of  Peace. 


61 


THE  BITTERNESS  OF  DEATH. 


"  O  Death !  how  bitter  is  tile  remembrance  of  tliee,  to  a  man  that  is  at 
ease  in  his  possessions." 

ECCLESIASTICUS  IV.  1. 


The  rich  man  moved  in  pomp.     His  soul  was  gorged 

With  the  gross  fulness  of  material  things, 

So  that  it  spread  no  pinion  forth  to  seek 

A  better  world  than  this.     There  was  a  change, 

And  in  the  sleepless  chamber  of  disease, 

Curtained  and  nursed,  and  ill-content  he  lay. 

He  had  a  wasted  and  an  eager  look, 

And  on  the  healer's  brow  he  fixed  a  glance, 

Keen — yet  imploring. 

What  he  greatly  feared 
Had  come  upon  him.     So  he  went  his  way — 
The  way  of  all  the  earth — and  his  lands  took 
Another's  name. 

Why  dost  thou  come,  O  Death! 
To  print  the  bridal  chamber  with  thy  foot, 
And  leave  the  ruin  of  thy  ministry. 
When  love,  and  joy,  and  hope,  so  late  had  hung 
Their  diamond  cressets'? 

To  the  cradle  side 
Why  need'st  thou  steal,  changing  to  thine  own  hue 
Of  ghastly  pale,  the  youthful  mother's  brow; 
And  for  her  nightly  watchings,  leaving  nought 
In  payment,  but  a  piece  of  marble  clay, 
F 


62  THE    BITTERNESS    OF    DEATH. 

And  the  torn  heart-strings  in  her  bleeding  breast, 
— Come  to  the  aged,  he  hath  sorely  trod 
Time's  rugged  road,  until  his  staff  is  broke. 
And  his  feet  palsied,  and  his  friends  all  gone; 
Put  thy  cold  finger  on  life's  last  faint  spark, 
And  scarcely  gasping  he  shall  follow  thee. 
— Come  to  the  saint,  for  he  will  meekly  take 
Thy  message  to  his  soul,  and  welcome  thee 
In  Jesu's  name,  and  bless  the  shadowy  gate 
Which  there  dost  open. 

Wait  awhile,  Oh  Death  ! 
For  those  who  love  this  fleeting  world  too  well. 
Wait,  till  it  force  their  hearts  to  turn  away 
From  all  its  empty  promises,  and  loathe 
Its  deep  hypocrisy.     Oh!  wait  for  those 
Who  have  not  tasted  yet  of  Heaven's  hicrh  grace. 
Nor  bring  them  to  their  audit,  all  unclothed 
With  a  Redeemer's  righteousness. 


G3 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY. 


Brilliant  and  beautiful ! — And  can  it  be 
That  in  thy  radiant  eye  there  dwells  no  light — 
Upon  thy  cheek  no  smile  1 — I  little  deemed 
At  our  last  parting,  when  thy  cheering  voice 
Breathed  the  soul's  harmony,  what  shadowy  form 
Then  rose  between  us,  and  with  icy  dart 
Wrote,  "  Ye  shall  meet  no  more.''''     I  little  deemed 
That  thy  elastic  step.  Death's  darkened  vale 
Would  tread  before  me. 

Friend  !  1  shrink  to  say 
Farewell  to  thee.     In  youth's  unclouded  morn 
We  gaze  on  friendship  as  a  graceful  flower, 
And  win  it  for  our  pleasure,  or  our  pride. 
But  when  the  stern  realities  of  life 
Do  clip  the  wings  of  fancy,  and  cold  storms 
Rack  the  worn  cordage  of  the  heart,  it  breathes 
A  healing  essence,  and  a  strengthening  charm. 
Next  to  the  hope  of  heaven.     Such  was  thy  love, 
Departed  and  deplored.     Talents  were  thine 
Lofty  and  bright,  the  subtle  shaft  of  wit. 
And  that  keen  glance  of  intellect  which  reads, 
Intuitive,  the  deep  and  mazy  springs 
Of  human  action.     Yet  such  meek  regard 
For  other's  feelings,  such  a  simple  grace 
And  singleness  of  purpose,  such  respect 
To  woman's  noiseless  duties  sweetly  blent, 
And  tempered  those  high  gifts,  that  every  heart 
That  feared  their  splendour,  loved  their  goodness  too. 
1  see  thy  home  of  birth.     Its  pleasant  halls 


64  TO  THE  MEMORY  OP  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

Put  on  the  garb  of  mourning.     Sad  and  lone 

Are  they  who  nursed  thy  virtues,  and  beheld 

Their  bright  expansion  through  each  ripening  year. 

To  them  the  sacred  name  of  daughter  blent 

All  images  of  comforter  and  friend, 

The  fire-side  charmer,  and  the  nurse  of  pain, 

Eyes  to  the  blind,  and,  to  the  weary,  wings. 

What  shall  console  their  sorrow,  when  young  morn 

Upriseth  in  its  beauty,  but  no  smile 

Of  filial  love  doth  mark  it  ] — or  when  eve 

Sinks  down  in  silence,  and  that  tuneful  tone, 

So  long  the  treasure  of  their  listening  heart, 

Uttereth  no  music  1 

Ah  I — so  frail  are  we — 
So  like  the  brief  ephemeron  that  wheels 
Its  momentary  round,  we  scarce  can  weep 
Our  own  bereavements,  ere  we  haste  to  share 
The  clay  with  those  we  mourn.     A  narrow  point 
Divides  our  grief-sob  from  our  pang  of  death  ; 
Down  to  the  mouldering  multitude  we  go, 
And  all  our  anxious  thoughts,  our  fevered  hopes, 
The  sorrowing  burdens  of  our  pilgrimage 
In  deep  oblivion  rest.     Then  let  the  woes 
And  joys  of  earth   be  to  the  deathless  soul 
Like  the  swept  dew-drop  from  the  eagle's  wing 
When  waking  in  his  strength,  he  sunward  soars. 


65 


SLAVERY. 


■'  Slavery  is  a  dark  shade  on  tlic  Map  of  the  United  States." 

La  Fayette. 


WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY. 

We  have  a  goodly  clime, 

Broad  vales  and  streams  we  boast, 
Our  mountain  frontiers  frown  sublime, 

Old  Ocean  guards  our  coast ; 
Suns  bless  our  harvest  fair, 

With  fervid  smile  serene. 
But  a  dark  shade  is  gathering  there — 

What  can  its  blackness  mean  1 

We  have  a  birth-right  proud, 

For  our  young  sons  to  claim. 
An  eagle  soaring  o'er  the  cloud. 

In  freedom  and  in  fame ; 
We  have  a  scutcheon  bright, 

By  our  dead  fathers  bought, 
A  fearful  blot  distains  its  white — 

Who  hath  such  evil  wrought  1 

Our  banner  o'er  the  sea 

Looks  forth  with  starry  eye. 
Emblazoned  glorious,  bold  and  free, 

A  letter  on  the  sky, 


66  SLAVERY. 

What  hand  with  shameful  stain 
Hath  marred  its  heavenly  blue? 

The  yoke,  the  fasces,  and  the  chain, 
Say,  are  these  emblems  true  1 

This  day  doth  music  rare 

Swell  through  our  nation's  bound. 
But  Afric's  wailing  mingles  there, 

Jlnd  Heaven  doth  hear  the  sound  ■■ 
O  God  of  power ! — we  turn 

In  penitence  to  thee. 
Bid  our  loved  land  the  lesson  learn — 

To  bid  the  slave  be  free. 


67 


EVENING   THOUGHTS. 


Come  to  thy  lonely  bower,  thou  who  dost  love 
The  hour  of  musing.     Come,  before  the  brow 
Of  twilight  darkens,  or  the  solemn  stars 
Look  from  their  casement.     'Mid  that  hush  of  soul 
Music  from  viewless  harps  shall  visit  thee, 
Such  as  thou  never  heard'st  amid  the  din 
Of  earth's  coarse  enginery,  by  toil  and  care 
Urged  on,  without  reprieve.     Ah !  kneel  and  catch 
That  tuneful  cadence.     It  shall  wing  thy  thought 
Above  the  jarring  of  this  time-worn  world. 
And  give  the  key-tone  of  that  victor-song 
Which  plucks  the  sting  from  death. 

How  closely  wrapt 

In  quiet  slumber  are  all  things  around ! 

The  vine-leaf,  and  the  willow-fringe  stir  not, 

Nor  doth  the  chirping  of  the  feeblest  bird, 

Nor  even  the  cold  glance  of  the  vestal  moon, 

Disturb  thy  reverie.     Yet  dost  thou  think 

To  he  alone? — In  fellowship  more  close 

Than  man  with  man,  pure  spirits  hover  near 

Prompting  to  high  communion  with  the  Source 

Of  every  perfect  gift.     Lift  up  the  soul ! 

For  'tis  a  holy  pleasure  thus  to  find 

Its  melody  of  musing  so  allied 

To  pure  devotion.     Give  thy  prayer  a  voice  ; 

Claiming  Heaven's  blessing  on  these  sacred  hours 

Which  in  the  world's  warped  balance  weighed,  might  yield 

But  sharp  derision.     Sure  they  help  to  weave 


68  EVENING  THOUGHTS. 

Such  robes  as  angels  wear,  and  thou  shalt  taste 
In  their  dear,  deep,  entrancing  solitude, 
Such  sweet  society, — that  thou  shalt  leave 
"  Signet  and  staff,"  as  pledges  of  return. 


1 


69 


*^ 


TO  THE  OCEAN. 


Hail,  glorious  Ocean  !     In  thy  calm  repose 

Majestic  like  a  king.     The  emerald  isles 

Sleep  on  thy  breast,  as  though  with  matron  care 

Thou  in  a  robe  of  light  didst  cradle  them, 

Hushing  the  gales  that  might  disturb  their  rest. 

Those  chastened  waves  that  in  rotation  throng 

To  kiss  their  chain  of  sand,  methinks  they  seem 

Like  pensive  teachers,  or  like  eloquent  types 

Of  the  brief  tenure  of  terrestrial  joy. 

Though  roused  to  sudden  anger,  thou  dost  change 

Thy  countenance,  and  armed  with  terror,  toss 

Man's  floating  castles  to  the  fiery  skies  : 

Yet  still  thou  art  his  friend.     Thy  mystic  spell 

Looseneth  the  tie  of  kindred,  lures  his  feet 

From  earth's  green  pastures  to  the  slippery  shrouds. 

Weans  his  bold  spirit  from  the  parent  hearth, 

Till  by  the  rough  and  perilous  baptism  bronzed, 

Thou  art  his  priest,  his  home. 

With  toil  and  change 
Creation  labours.     Streams  their  beds  forsake, 
Strong  mountains  moulder — the  eternal  hills 
Leap  from  their  firm  foundations — planets  fall ; 
But  age  thy  fearful  forehead  furroweth  not. 
Earth's  bosom  bleeds  beneath  her  warring  sons, 
The  tempest  scathes  her  with  a  foot  of  flame. 
And  her  bloom  withers ;  but  what  eye  may  trace 
Where  haughtiest  navies  poured  their  hostile  wrath 


70  TO  THE  OCEAN. 

Into  thy  breast,  or  tlie  storm-spirit  dashed 

Thy  salt  tears  to  the  sky  1     What  hand  hath  reared 

Upon  thy  ever-heaving  pedestal 

One  monumental  fane  to  those  who  sleep 

Within  thy  cloistered  chambers  ?     Myriads  there, 

Wrapped  in  the  tangled  sea-fan's  gorgeous  shroud, 

On  thy  pearl  pavement  find  their  sepulchre. 

Earth  strictly  questioned  for  these  absent  ones, 

Her  beautiful,  her  brave,  her  innocent ; 

But  thou,  in  thy  unyielding  silence  gave 

No  tidings  of  them,  and  despotic  bade 

Beauty  and  Death,  like  rival  kings,  divide 

Thy  secret  realm. 

Mysterious  Deep,  farewell ! 
I  turn  from  thy  companionship.     But  lo. 
Thy  voice  doth  follow  me.     'Mid  lonely  bower, 
Or  twilight  dream,  or  wakeful  couch,  I  hear 
That  solemn,  and  reverberated  hymn 
From  thy  deep  organ  which  doth  speak  God's  praise 
In  thunder,  night  and  day. 

Still  by  my  side 
Even  as  a  dim  seen  spirit  deign  to  walk 
Prompter  of  holy  thought,  and  type  of  Him, 
Sleepless,  immutable,  omnipotent. 


71 


COLUMBUS  BEFORE  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 
SALAMANCA. 


"Columbus  found  that  in  advocating  the  spherical  figure  of  the  earth,  he 
was  in  danger  of  being  convicted  not  merely  of  error,  but  even  of 
Iteterodoiij." 

Washington  Irving. 


St,  Stephen's  cloistered  hall  was  proud 

In  learning's  pomp  that  day, 
For  there  a  robed  and  stately  crowd 

Pressed  on  in  long  array. 
A  mariner  with  simple  chart 

Confronts  that  conclave  high, 
While  strong  ambition  stirs  his  heart, 
And  burning  thoughts  of  wonder  part 

From  lip  and  sparkling  eye. 

What  hath  he  said?     With  frowning  face, 

In  whispered  tones  they  speak, 
And  lines  upon  their  tablets  trace. 

Which  flush  each  ashen  cheek; 
The  Inquisition's  mystic  doom 

Sits  on  their  brows  severe. 
And  bursting  forth  in  visioned  gloom, 
Sad  heresy  from  burning  tomb 

Groans  on  the  startled  ear. 

Courage,  thou  Genoese!     Old  Time 
Thy  splendid  dream  shall  crown, 


72  COLUMBUS. 

Yon  Western  hemisphere  sublime, 
Where  unshorn  forests  frown, 

The  awful  Andes'  cloud-wrapt  brow, 
The  Indian  hunter's  bow. 

Bold  streams  untamed  by  helm  or  prow, 

And  rocks  of  gold  and  diamonds  there 
To  thankless  Spain  shalt  show. 

Courage,  World-finder!  Thou  hast  need! 

In  Fates'  unfolding  scroll, 
Dark  woes,  and  ingrate  wrongs  I  read. 

That  rack  the  noble  soul. 
On!  On!    Creation's  secrets  probe. 

Then  drink  thy  cup  of  scorn, 
And  wrapped  in  fallen  Cesar's  robe. 
Sleep  like  that  master  of  the  globe. 

All  glorious, — yet  forlorn. 


73 


"  CHARITY  BEARETH  ALL  THINGS.' 


St.  Paul. 


The  lion  loves  his  own. — The  desert  sands, 
High  tossed  beneath  his  spurning  foot,  attest 
The  rage  of  his  bereavement.     With  hoarse  cries 
Vindictive  echoing  round  the  rocky  shores 
The  polar  bear  her  slaughtered  cub  bewails. 
While  with  a  softer  plaint  where  verdant  groves 
Responsive  quiver  to  the  evening  breeze, 
Tlie  mother-bird  deplores  her  ravaged  nest." 

The  Savage  loves  his  own. — His  wind-rocked  babe 
That  rudely  cradled  'mid  the  fragrant  boughs, 
Or  on  its  toiling  mother's  shoulders  bound 
Shrinks  not  from  sun  or  rain;  his  hoary  sire. 
And  hunting-spear,  and  forest  sports  are  dear. 

The  Heathen  loves  his  own. — The  faithful  friend 
Who  by  his  side  the  stormy  battle  dares. 
The  chieftain,  at  whose  nod  his  life-blood  flows. 
His  native  earth,  and  simple  hut  are  dear. 

The  Christian  loves  his  own. — But  is  his  God 
Content  with  this,  who  full  of  bounty  pours 
His  sun-ray  on  the  evil  and  the  good. 
And  like  a  parent  gathereth  round  his  board 
The  thankless  with  the  just!     Shall  man,  who  shares 
This  unrequited  banquet,  sternly  bar 
From  his  heart's  brotherhood  a  fellow-guest  ? 
Shall  he  within  his  bosom  sternly  hide 


74  CHARITY    BEARETH    ALL    THINGS. 

Retaliation's  poison,  when  the  smile 
Of  Heaven  doth  win  him  to  the  deeds  of  love  1 
Speak  I  servants  of  that  Blessed  One  who  gave 
The  glorious  precept  "  love  your  enemies," 
Is  it  enough  that  ye  should  love  your  jviends, 
Even  as  the  heathen  do! 

Is  He  who  bore 
The  flight  of  friendship,  the  denial  vow 
Of  coward  love — the  Pharisaic  taunt — 
Judea's  maddened  scourge — the  Roman  spear — 
A  world's  offences,  and  the  pang  of  death — 
Is  He  your  Master,  if  ye  only  walk 
As  Nature  prompts'? 

If  the  love-beaming  eye 
Drink  fond  return  reciprocal,  the  lip 
That  pours  your  praise,  partake  your  sympathy 
When  sorrow  blanches  it,  the  liberal  hand 
Win  by  its  gifts  your  meed  of  gratitude, 
What  do  ye  more  than  others'?     But  on  him 
Whose  frown  of  settled  hatred  mars  your  rest, 
Who  to  the  bosom  of  your  fame  doth  strike 
A  serpent-sting,  your  kindest  deeds  requite 
With  treachery,  and  o'er  your  motives  cast 
The  mist  of  prejudice;  say,  can  you  look 
With  the  meek  smile  of  patient  tenderness, 
And  from  the  deep  pavilion  of  your  soul 
Send  up  the  prayer  of  blessing! 

God  of  strength ! 
Be  merciful !  and  when  we  duly  kneel 
Beside  our  pillow  of  repose,  and  say 
"  Forgive  us,  Father,  even  as  we  forgive," 
Grant  that  the  murmured  vision  seal  not 
Our  condemnation. 


75 


"THE  FASHION  OF  THIS  WORLD  PASSETH 

AWAY." 

1  Corinthians  VII.  31. 

A  Rose  upon  her  mossy  stem, 

Fair  Queen  of  Flora's  gay  domain, 
All  graceful  wore  her  diadem, 

The  brightest  'mid  the  brilliant  train  ; 
But  Evening  came,  with  frosty  breath. 

And  ere  the  quick  return  of  Day, 
Her  beauties  in  the  blight  of  death 

Had  past  away. 

I  saw  when  morning  gemmed  the  sky 

A  fair  young  creature  gladly  rove. 
Her  moving  lip  was  melody, 

Her  varying  smile  the  charm  of  love, 
At  eve  I  came — but  on  her  bed 

She  drooped — with  forehead  pale  as  clay, 
"  What  dost  thou  here?" — she  faintly  said 

"  Passing  away.'''' 

I  looked  on  manhood's  towering  form 
Like  some  tall  oak  when  tempests  blow, 

That  scorns  the  fury  of  the  storm 
And  strongly  strikes  its  root  below. 

Again  1  looked, — with  idiot  cower 
His  vacant  eye's  unmeaning  ray 


76  THE  FASHION  OP  THIS  WORLD  PASSETH. 

Told  how  the  mind  of  godlike  power 

May  pass  away. 

Of  Earth  I  asked,  with  deep  surprise, 
Hast  thou  no  more  enduring  grace. 

To  lure  thy  trusting  votaries 

Along  their  toil-worn,  shadowy  race  T 

She  answered  not,— the  grave  replied, 
"  Lo !  to  my  sceptre's  silent  sway 

Her  boasted  beauty,  pomp  and  pride, 

Must  pass  away." 


77 


THE  BURMANS  AND  THEIR  MISSIONARY 


"  Are  you  Jesus  Christ's  man  ?    Give  us  a  writing  that  tells  about  Jesus 

Christ." 

Letter  of  Rev.  Dr.  Judsoii. 


There  is  a  cry  in  Burmali,  and  a  rush 
Of  thousand  footsteps  from  the  distant  bound 
Of  watery  Siam  and  the  rich  Lathay. 
From  the  far  northern  frontier,  pilgrims  meet 
The  central  dwellers  in  the  forest-shades, 
And  on  they  press  together.     Eager  hope 
Sits  in  their  eye,  and  on  their  lips  the  warmth 
Of  strong  request.     Is  it  for  bread  they  seek, 
Like  the  dense  multitude  which  fainting  hung 
Upon  the  Saviour's  words,  till  the  third  day 
Closed  in  and  left  them  hungering "? 

Not  for  food 
Or  raiment  ask  they.     Simply  girding  on 
The  scanty  garment  o'er  the  weary  limb, 
They  pass  unmarked  the  lofty  domes  of  wealth 
Inquiring  for  a  stranger.     There  he  stands, 
The  mark  of  foreign  climes  is  on  his  brow ; 
He  hath  no  power,  no  costly  gifts  to  deal 
Among  the  people,  and  his  lore  perchance 
The  earth-bowed  worldling  with  his  scales  of  gold 
Accounteth  folly.     Yet  to  him  is  raised 
Each  straining  eye-ball,  "Tell  us  of  the  Christ!" 
And  like  the  far  off  murmur  of  the  sea 
G* 


78  THE  BERMANS  AND  THEIR  MISSIONARY. 

Lashed  by  the  tempest,  swelled  their  blended  tone, 
"  Sir, — we  would  hear  of  Christ.     Give  us  a  scroll 
Bearing  his  name." 

And  there  that  teacher  stood, 
Far  from  his  native  land, — amid  the  graves 
Of  his  lost  infants,  and  of  her  he  loved 
More  than  his  life, — yes,  there  he  stood  alone, 
And  with  a  simple,  saint-like  eloquence 
Spake  his  Redeemer's  word.     Forgot  was  all — 
Home,  boyhood,  christian-fellowship — the  tone 
Of  his  sweet  babes — his  partner's  dying  strife — 
Chains,  perils,  Burman  dungeons,  all  forgot, 
Save  the  deep  danger  of  the  heathen's  soul, 
And  God's  salvation.     And  methought  that  earth 
In  all  she  vaunts  of  majesty,  or  tricks 
With  silk  and  purple,  or  the  baubled  pride 
Of  throne  and  sceptre,  or  the  blood-red  pomp. 
Of  the  stern  hero,  had  not  aught  to  boast 
So  truly  great,  so  touching,  so  sublime. 
As  that  lone  Missionary,  shaking  off 
All  links  and  films  and  trappings  of  the  world. 
And  in  his  chastened  nakedness  of  soul 
Rising  to  bear  the  embassy  of  Heaven. 


79 


"DIEM  PERDIDA." 


The  Emperor  Titus,  at  the  close  of  a  day,  in  which  he  had  neither  gained 
knowledge,  or  conferred  benefit,  used  to  exclaim — "  /  have  lost  a  day." 


Why  art  thou  sad, — thou  of  the  sceptred  hand  ? 

The  robed  in  purple,  and  the  high  in  state  ? 
Rome  pours  her  myriads  forth,  a  vassal  band, 

And  foreign  powers  are  crouching  at  thy  gate, 
Yet  dost  thou  deeply  sigh,  as  if  oppressed  by  fate. 

'•'■  Diem  perdida  f'' — Pour  the  empire's  treasure. 

Uncounted  gold,  and  gems  of  rainbow  die. 
Unlock  the  fountains  of  a  monarch's  pleasure 

To  lure  the  lost  one  back.     I  heard  a  cry. 
One  hour  of  parted  time — a  world  is  poor  to  buy. 

"  Diem  perdida  /" — 'Tis  a  mournful  story, 

Thus  in  the  ear  of  pensive  eve  to  tell. 
Of  morning's  firm  resolves  the  vanished  glory, 

Hope's  honey  left  within  the  withering  bell. 
And  plants  of  mercy  dead,  which  might  have  bloomed  so  well. 

Hail,  self-communing  Emperor, — nobly  wise! 

There  are,  who,  thoughtless,  haste  to  life's  last  goal, 
There  are,  who  Time's  long-squandered  wealth  despise, 

Vitam  perdida  marks  their  finish  scroll. 
When  Death's  dark  angel  comes  to  claim  the  startled  soul. 


80 


PAUL  BEFORE  AGRIPPA. 


The  son  of  Herod  sate  in  regal  state 
Fast  by  his  sister-queen — and  'mid  the  throng 
Of  supple  courtiers,  and  of  Roman  guards, 
Gave  solemn  audience.     Summoned  to  his  bar 
A  prisoner  came, — who  with  no  flattering  tone 
Brought  incense  to  a  mortal.     Every  eye 
Questioned  his  brow,  with  scowling  eagerness. 
As  the  he  stood  in  bonds.     But  when  he  spoke 
With  such  majestic  earnestness,  such  grace 
Of  simple  courtesy — with  fervent  zeal 
So  boldly  reasoned  for  the  truth  of  God, 
The  ardour  of  his  heaven-taught  eloquence 
Wrought  in  the  royal  bosom,  till  its  pulse 
Responsive  trembled  with  the  new-born  hope 
"  Almost  to  be  a  Christian." 

So,  he  rose. 
And  with  the  courtly  train  swe])t  forth  in  pomp. 
'■'■Almost ;'''' — and  was  this  all, — thou  Jewish  prince? 
Thou  listener  to  the  ambassador  of  Heaven — 
^'■Almost  persuaded.'^'' — Ah!  hadst  thou  exchanged 
Thy  trappings  and  thy  purple,  for  his  bonds 
Who  stood  before  thee — hadst  thou  drawn  his  hope 
Into  thy  bosom  even  with  the  spear 
Of  martyrdom — how  great  had  been  thy  gain. 

And  ye,  who  linger  while  the  call  of  God 
Bears  witness  with  your  conscience,  and  would  fain 
Like  king  Agrippa  follow, — yet  draw  back 
Awhile  into  the  vortex  of  the  world 


PAUL  BEFORE  AGRIPPA.  Ql 

Perchance  to  swell  the  hoard,  which  Death  shall  sweep 

Like  driven  chaff  away,  'mid  stranger  hands, 

Perchance  hy  Pleasure's  deadening  opiate  lulled 

To  false  security — or  by  the  fear 

Of  man  constrained — or  moved  to  give  your  sins 

A  little  longer  scope,  beware ! — beware  ! — 

Lest  that  dread  "  almosf^  shut  you  out  from  Heaven. 


82 


APPEAL  OF  THE  BLIND. 


TO  BE  SUNG  AT  AN  EXHIBITION  OF  BLIND  BOYS. 


Ye  see  the  glorious  sun 

The  varied  landscape  light, 
The  moon,  with  all  her  starry  train, 

Illume  the  arch  of  night, 
Bright  tree,  and  bird,  and  flower 

That  deck  your  joyous  way, 
The  face  of  kindred,  and  of  friend, 

More  fair,  more  dear  than  they. 

For  us  there  glows  no  sun, 

No  green  and  flowery  lawn. 
Our  rayless  darkness  hath  no  moon. 

Our  midnight  knows  no  dawn; 
The  parent's  pitying  eye. 

To  all  our  sorrows  true. 
The  brother's  brow,  the  sister's  smile. 

Have  never  met  our  view. 

We  have  a  lamp  within, 

That  knowledge  fain  would  light. 
And  pure  Religion's  radiance  touch 

With  beams  forever  bright ; 
Say,  shall  it  rise  to  share 

Such  radiance  full  and  free  1 
And  will  ye  keep  a  Saviour's  charge, 

And  cause  the  blind  to  see  ? 


83 


THE  LIBRARY. 


Thou,  whom  the  world  with  heartless  intercourse 
Hath  wearied,  and  thy  spirit's  hoarded  gold 
Coldly  impoverished,  and  with  husks  repaid, 
Turn  hither.     'Tis  a  quiet  resting-place. 
Silent,  yet  peopled  well.     Here  may'st  thou  hold 
Communion  eloquent,  and  undismayed. 
Even  with  the  greatest  of  the  ancient  earth, 
Sages,  and  sires  of  science.     These  shall  gird 
And  sublimate  thy  soul,  until  it  soar 
Above  the  elements,  and  view  with  scorn 
The  thraldom  of  an  hour. 

Doth  thy  heart  bleed. 
And  is  there  none  to  heal, — no  comforter  1 
Turn  to  the  mighty  dead.     They  shall  unlock 
Full  springs  of  sympathy,  and  with  cool  hand 
Compress  thy  fevered  brow.     The  poet's  sigh 
From  buried  agres  on  thine  ear  shall  steal. 
Like  that  sweet  harp  which  soothed  the  mood  of  Saul. 
The  cloistered  hero,  and  the  throneless  king, 
In  stately  sadness  shall  admonish  thee 
How  Hope  hath  dealt  with  man.     A  map  of  woe 
The  martyr  shall  unfold, — till  in  his  pangs 
Pity  doth  merge  all  memory  of  thine  own. 
Perchance  unceasing  care,  or  thankless  toil 
Do  vex  thy  spirit,  and  sharp  thorns  press  deep 
Into  the  naked  nerve.     Still,  hither  come. 
And  close  thy  door  upon  the  clamouring  crowd, 
Though  for  a  moment.     Grave  and  glorious  shades 


84  '    THE  LIBRARY. 

Rise  up  and  gather  round  thee.     Plato's  brow 
Doth  blend  rebuke  with  its  benignity 
That  trifles  thus  should  move  thee — Seneca 
Spreads  to  thy  mind  his  richly-reasoning  page, 
While  Socrates  a  cordial  half-divine 
Pours  o'er  thy  drooping  spirit. 

But  hath  Heaven 
Unveiled  thy  nature's  deep  infirmity, 
And  shown  the  spots  that  darken  all  we  call 
Perfection  here  1     All  lore  of  lettered  Pride, 
Philosophy  and  Science,  then  are  vain, 
They  yield  no  help.     Haste  to  the  book  of  God  ! 
Yea,  come  to  Jesus  ! — Author  of  our  faith. 
And  finisher — doubt  not  His  word  shall  be 
A  tree  of  life  to  feed  thy  fainting  soul. 
Till  thou  arise  where  knowledge  hath  no  bound, 
And  dwell  a  tireless  student  of  the  skies. 


85 


THE  MOTHER. 


"  It  may  be  Autumn,  yea  Winter,  with  the  woman,— but  with  the  mother, 
as  a  mother,  it  is  always  Spring." 

Sermon  of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Cubhet,  at  Lynn,  16G5. 


I  SAW  an  aged  woman  bow 

To  weariness  and  care, 
Time  wrote  his  sorrows  on  her  brow 

And  'mid  her  frosted  hair. 

Hope,  from  her  breast  had  torn  away 

Its  rooting  scathed  and  dry, 
And  on  the  pleasures  of  the  gay 

She  turned  a  joyless  eye. 

What  was  it  that  like  sunbeam  clear 

O'er  her  wan  feature''  run, 
As  pressing  toward  her  deafened  ear 

I  named  her  absent  son  ? 

What  was  it  ?  Ask  a  mother's  breast 
Through  which  a  fountain  flows 

Perennial,  fathomless  and  blest, 
By  winter  never  froze. 

What  was  it?  Ask  the  King  of  kings, 

Who  hath  decreed  above 
That  change  should  mark  all  earthly  things, 
Except  a  mother's  love. 
H 


86 


DEATH  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  BOY. 


I  SAW  thee  at  thy  mother's  side,  when  she  was  marble  cold, 
And  thou  wert  like  some  cherub  form  cast  in  ethereal  mould. 
But  when  the  sudden  pang  of  grief  oppressed  thine  infant 

thought, 
And  'mid  thy  clear  and  radiant  eye  a  liquid  crystal  wrought, 
I  thought  how  strong  that  faith  must  be  that  breaks  a  mother's 

tie. 
And  bids  her  leave  her  darling's  tears  for  other  hands  to  dry. 

I  saw  thee  in  thine  hour  of  sport,  beside  thy  father's  bower. 
Amid  his  broad  and  bright  parterre,  thyself  the  fairest  flower ; 
I  heard  thy  tuneful  voice  ring  out  upon  the  summer  air. 
As  though  some  bird  of  Eden  poured  its  joyous  carol  there, 
And   lingered   with    delighted   gaze  on   happy    childhood's 

charms, 
Which  once  the  blest  Redeemer  loved,  and  folded  in  his  arms. 

I  saw  thee  scan  the  classic  page,  with  high  and  glad  surprise, 
And  saw  the  sun  of  science  beam,  as  on  an  eaglet's  eyes. 
And  marked  thy  strong  and  brilliant  mind  arouse  to  bold 

pursuit. 
And  from  the  tree  of  knowledge  pluck  its  richest,  rarest  fruit. 
Yet  still  from  such  precocious  power  I  shrank  with  secret 

fear, 
A  shuddering  presage  that  thy  race  must  soon  be  ended  here. 

I  saw  thee  in  the  house  of  God,  and  loved  the  reverent  air 
With  which  thy  beauteous  head  was  bowed,  low  in  thy  guile- 
less prayer. 


DEATH  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  150V.  87 

Yet  Utile  deemed  how  sooti  thy  place  would   be  with  that 

blest  band, 
Who  ever  near  the  Eternal  Throne  in  sinless  worship  stand; 
And  little  deemed  how  soon  the  tomb  must  lock  thy  glorious 

charms, 
And  winor  thine  ardent  soul  to  find  a  sainted  mother's  arms. 


88 


SABBATH  MORNING. 


See  !  heaven  wakes  earth.     There  is  an  answering  sigh 
From  the  soft  winds,  as  they  unfurl  their  wings 
Impalpable, — and  touch  the  dimpling  streams 
Which  the  lithe  willows  kiss,  and  through  the  groves 
Make  whispering  melody.     Methinks  the  sea 
Murmureth  in  tone  subdued, — and  nature  smiles 
As  if  within  her  raptured  breast  she  caught 
The  breath  of  Deity. 

Hail !  hallowed  Morn 
That  binds  a  yoke  on  Vice.     Drooping  her  head, 
She  by  her  quaint  hypocrisy  doth  show 
How  beautiful  is  Virtue.     Eve  will  light 
Her  orgies  up  again — but  at  this  hour 
She  trembleth  and  is  still.     Humility 
From  the  cleft  rock  where  she  hath  hid,  doth  mark 
The  girded  majesty  of  God  go  by, 
And  kneeling,  wins  a  blessing.     Grief  forgoes 
Her  bitterness — and  round  the  tear-wet  urn 
Twines  sweet  and  simple  flowers.     But  most  firm  faith 
Enjoys  this  holy  season.     She  doth  lift 
Her  brow  and  talk  with  seraphs, — till  the  soul 
That  by  the  thraldom  of  the  week  was  bowed, 
And  crushed,  and  spent, — like  the  enfranchised  slave 
Doth  leap  to  put  its  glorious  garments  on. 


89 


THE  DESERT  FLOWER. 


A  WEARY  course  the  traveller  held, 

As  on  with  footstep  lone, 
By  scientific  zeal  impelled 

He  tracked  the  torrid  zone. 

His  thoughts  were  with  his  native  glades, 

His  father's  pleasant  halls, 
Where  darkly  peer  through  woven  shades 

The  ahbey's  ivied  walls. 

But  to  the  far  horizon's  bound, 
Wide  as  the  glance  could  sweep. 

The  sandy  desert  spread  around 
Like  one  vast,  waveless  deep. 

What  saw  he  'mid  that  dreary  scene, 

To  wake  his  rapture  wild  ? 
A  flower ! — A  flower ! — with  glorious  mien, 

Like  some  bright  rainbow's  child. 

Kneeling  he  clasped  it  to  his  breast, 
He  praised  its  wonderous  birth, 

Fresh,  fragile,  beautiful  and  blest, 
The  poetry  of  earth.  ^ 

No  secret  fountain  through  its  veins 

Sustaining  vigor  threw, 
No  dew  refreshed  those  arid  plains, 

Yet  there  the  stranger  grew. 

H  '^' 


QQ  THE  DESERT  FLOWER. 

It  seemed  as  if  some  tender  friend, 

Beloved  in  childhood's  day, 
A  murmur  through  those  leaves  did  send, 
A  smile  to  cheer  his  way  : 

And  fervently  a  prayer  for  those 

In  his  own  distant  bower, 
Like  incense  from  his  heart  uprose 

Beside  that  Desert  Flower. 

For  thus  do  Nature's  hallowed  charms 
Man's  softened  soul  inspire. 

As  to  the  infant  in  her  arms 
The  mother  points  its  sire. 


91 


THE  SOUTH  GEORGIAN  LARK. 


"  The  LARK  is  the  only  land-bird  found  in  the  island  of  Georgia,  south- 
east of  Cape  Horn,  the  whole  surface  of  which  is  constantly  covered  with 
snow  and  ice." 

Malte  Srun. 


Lone  minstrel  of  yon  dreary  isle,  that  shares  no  genial  ray, 

There  is  no  discord  in  thy  tone,  no  winter  in  thy  lay, 

And  sweetly  doth  thy  warbled  song  flow  from  yon  sterile 

shores. 
While  the  Pacific's  monstrous  surge,  in  deafening  thunder 

roars. 

No  kindred  wing  with  thine  is  spread  those  rugged  cliffs  to 

dare. 
For  even    the  undaunted  eagle   shrinks  to  hang  his  eyrie 

there; 
But  thou,  when  rude  and  bitter  blasts  thy  shivering  bosom 

chill. 
High  soaring  in  a  flood  of  light,  dost  merge  the  pang  of  ill. 

Thou,  mid  a  prisoning  realm  of  ice,  thy  callow  young  dost 

rear. 
For  well  a  parent's  heart  may  warm  earth's  most  inclement 

sphere. 
And  when  amid  thy  snow-wreathed  nest  thou  hear'st  their 

chirping  strain. 
Thou  hast  a  magic  spell  to  make  the  tempest's  anger  vain. 


92  THE  SOUTH  GEORGIAN  LARK. 

Man  should  thy  pupil  be.    Draw  near,  thou  of  the  lordly  mind, 
Whose  will  the  unmeasured  universe  in  links  of  thought  can 

bind; 
Yet  still  beneath  a  transient  woe,  ingloriously  dost  droop. 
Or  shuddering  at  the  frown  of  fate,  on  sky-borne  pinion  stoop  : 

What  though  Misfortune's  shaft  severe  thy  lingering  hope 

destroys. 
Till  only  some  pale  frost-flower  stands  to  mark  thy  smitten 

joys; 
What  though  Affliction's  keenest  dart  thy  inmost  soul  hath 

stoned. 
Still  heavenward  lift  the  lay  of  praise,  like  the  lone  Georgian 

bird. 


93 


FLORA'S  PARTY. 


Lady  Flora  gave  cards  for  a  party  at  tea, 

To  flowers,  buds  and  blossoms  of  every  degree; 

So  from  town  and  from  country  they  thronged  at  the  call. 

And  strove  by  their  charms  to  embellish  the  hall. 

First  came  the  exotics,  with  ornaments  rare, 
The  tall  Miss  Corcoris,  and  Cyclamen  fair. 
Auricula,  splendid  with  jewels  new  set. 
And  gay  Polyanthus,  the  pretty  coquette. 
The  Tulips  came  flounting  in  gaudy  array. 
With  Hyacinths  bright  as  the  eye  of  the  day; 
Dandy  Coxcombs  and  Daffodils,  rich  and  polite, 
"With  their  dazzling  new  vests  and  their  corsets  laced  tight, 
While  the  Soldiers  in  Green,  cavalierly  attired, 
Were  all  by  the  ladies  extremely  admired. 
But  prudish  Miss  Lily,  with  bosom  of  snow, 
Declared  that  "  the  officers  stared  at  her  so, 
'Twas  excessively  rude,"  so  retired  in  a  fright, 
And  scarce  paused  to  bid  Lady  Flora  good  night. 
There  were  Myrtles  and  Roses  from  garden  and  plain, 
And  Venus's  Fly-trap  they  brought  in  their  train; 
So  the  beaux  clustered  round  them,  they  scarcely  knew  why, 
At  each  smile  of  the  lip,  or  each  glance  of  the  eye. 

Madame  Damask  complained  of  her  household  and  care. 
How  she  seldom  went  out  even  to  breathe  the  fresh  air; 
There  were  so  many  young  ones  and  servants  to  stray. 
And  the  thorns  grew  so  fast  ii  her  eye  was  away: 
"  Neighbour  Moss  Rose,"  said  she,  "  you  who  live  like  a 

queen, 
And  scarce  wet  your  fingers,  do'nt  know  what  I  mean:" 


94  FLORA  S    PARTY. 

So  that  notable  lady  went  on  with  her  lay, 
Till  the  auditors  yawned  and  stole  softly  away. 

The  sweet  Misses  Woodbine,  from  country  and  town, 
With  their  brother-in-law.  Colonel  Trumpet,  came  down; 
And  Lupine,  whose  azure-eye  sparkled  with  dew, 
On  Amaranth  leaned,  the  unchanging  and  true, 
While  modest  Clematis  appeared  as  a  bride. 
And  her  husband,  the  Lilac,  ne'er  moved  from  her  side, 
Though  the  belles   giggled  loudly  and   vowed   "  'twas   a 

shame. 
For  a  young  married  chit  such  attention  to  claim ; 
They  never  attended  a  rout  in  their  life. 
Where  a  city-bred  gentleman  spoke  to  his  wife." 

Mrs  Piony  came  in  quite  late,  in  a  heat, 
With  the  Ice-plant,  new  spangled  from  forehead  to  feet; 
Lobelia,  attired  like  a  queen  in  her  pride. 
And  the  Dahlias,  with  trimmings  new-furbished  and  dyed  ; 
And  the  Blue-bells  and  Hare-bells,  in  simple  array, 
With  all  their  Scotch  cousins  from  highland  and  brae. 
Ragged  Ladies  and  Marigolds  clustered  together. 
And  gossiped  of  scandal,  the  news,  and  the  weather — 
What  dresses  were  worn  at  the  wedding  so  fine 
Of  sharp  Mr.  Thistle  and  sweet  Columbine; 
Of  the  loves  of  Sweet  William  and  Lily  the  prude. 
Till  the  clamours  of  Babel  again  seemed  renewed. 
In  a  snug  little  nook  sate  the  Jessamine  pale, 
And  that  pure  fragrant  Lily,  the  gem  of  the  vale  ; 
The  meek  Mountain-daisy,  with  delicate  crest. 
And  the  Violet,  whose  eye  told  the  heaven  in  her  breast ; 
While  allured  to  their  group  were  the  wise  ones  who  bowed 
To  that  virtue  which  seeks  not  the  praise  of  the  crowd. 
But  the  proud  Crown  Imperial,  who  wept  in  her  heart 
That  modesty  gained  of  such  homage  a  part. 
Looked  haughtily  down  on  their  innocent  mien. 
And  spread  out  her  gown  that  they  might  not  be  seen. 

The  bright  Lady-slippers  and  Sweet-briars  agreed 
With  their  slim  cousin  Aspens  a  measure  to  lead; 


flora's  party.  95 

And  sweet  'twas  to  see  their  light  footsteps  advance 
Like  the  wing  of  tiie  breeze  through  the  maze  of  the  dance; 
But  the  Monk's-hood  scowled  dark,  and  in  utterance  low, 
Declared  "  'twas  high  time  for  good  Christians  to  go ; 
He'd  heard  from  his  parson  a  sermon  sublime, 
Where  he  proved  from  the  Vulgate— i!o  dance  was  a  crime." 
So  folding  a  cowl  round  his  cynical  head, 
He  took  from  the  side-board  a  bumper  and  fled. 
A  song  was  desired,  but  each  musical  flower 
Had  "taken  a  cold,  and  'twas  out  of  her  power;" 
Till  sufficiently  urged,  they  burst  forth  in  a  strain 
Of  quavers  and  thrills  that  astonished  the  train. 
Mimosa  sat  shrinking,  and  said  with  a  sigh — 
"  'Twas  so  fine,  she  was  ready  with  rapture  to  die :" 
And  Cactus,  the  grammar-school  tutor,  declared 
"It  might  be  with  the  gamut  of  Orpheus  compared:" 
But  Night-shade,  the  metaphysician,  complained 
That  "  the  nerves  of  his  ears  were  excessively  pained  ; 
'Twas  but  seldom  he  crept  from  the  college,  he  said, 
And  he  wished  himself  safe  in  his  study  or  bed." 

There  were  pictures  whose  splendour  illumined  the  place. 
Which  Flora  had  finished  with  exquisite  grace : 
She  had  dipped  her  free  pencil  in  Nature's  pure  dies. 
And  Aurora  re-touched  with  fresh  purple  the  skies. 
So  the  grave  connoisseurs  hasted  near^thfem  to  draw. 
Their  knowledge  to  show  by  detecting  a  flaw. 
The  Carnation  took  her  eye-glass  from  her  waist. 
And  pronounced  they  were  "  scarce  in  good  keeping  or  taste." 
While  prim  Fleur  de  Lis,  in  her  robe  of  French  silk. 
And  magnificent  Calla,  with  mantle  like  milk, 
Of  the  Louvre  recited  a  wonderful  tale, 
And  said  "  Guido's  rich  tints  made  dame  Nature  turn  pale." 
Mr.  Snowball  assented,  proceeding  to  add 
His  opinion  that  "a//  Nature's  colouring  was  had;''' 
He  had  thought  so  e'er  since  a  few  days  he  had  spent 
To  study  the  paintings  of  Rome,  as  he  went 


96  flora's  party. 

To  visit  his  classmate  Gentiana,  who  chose 
His  abode  on  the  Alps,  in  a  palace  of  snows: 
But  he  took  on  Mont  Blanc  such  a  terrible  chill 
That  ever  since  that  he'd  been  pallid  and  ill. 

Half  withered  Miss  Hackmetack  bought  a  new  glass, 
And  thought  with  her  neices,  the  Spruces,  to  pass ; 
But  Bachelor  Holly,  who  spyed  her  out  late, 
Destroyed  all  her  hopes  by  a  hint  at  her  date : 
So  she  pursed  up  her  mouth  and  said  tartly  with  scorn, 
"  She  could  not  remember  before  she  was  born.^^ 
Old  Jonquil  the  crooked-backed  beau  had  been  told 
That  a  tax  would  be  laid  on  bachelor's  gold; 
So  he  bought  a  new  coat  and  determined  to  try 
The  long  disused  armour  of  Cupid,  so  sly. 
Sought  out  half  opened  buds  in  their  infantine  years. 
And  ogled  them  all,  till  they  blushed  to  the  ears. 

Philosopher  Sage,  on  a  sofa  was  prosing. 
With  good  Dr.  Chamomile  quietly  dozing; 
Though  the  Laurel  descanted  with  eloquent  breath, 
Of  heroes  and  battles,  of  victory  and  death, 
Of  the  conquests  of  Greece,  and  Botzaris  the  brave, 
"  He  had  trod  on  his  steps  and  had  sighed  o'er  his  grave." 
Farmer  Sunflower  was  near,  and  decidedly  spake 
Of  the  "poultry  he  fed,  and  the  oil  he  might  make;" 
For  the  true-hearted  soul  deemed  a  weather-stained  face, 
And  a  toil-hardened  hand  no  mark  of  disgrace. 
Then  he  beckoned  his  nieces  to  rise  from  their  seat. 
The  plump  Dandelion  and  Cowslip  so  neat. 
And  bade  them  to  "  pack  up  their  duds  and  away 
For  he  believed  in  his  heart 'twas  the  break  o'  the  day." 

'Twas  indeed  very  late,  and  the  coaches  were  brought, 
For  the  grave  matron  flowers  of  their  nurseries  thought ; 
The  lustre  was  dimmed  of  each  drapery  rare, 
And  the  lucid  young  brows  looked  beclouded  with  care ; 
All  save  the  bright  Cereus,  that  belle  so  divine. 
Who  preferred  through  the  curtains  of  midnight  to  shine. 


flora's  party.  97 

Now  they  curtseyed  and  bowed,  as  they  moved  to  the  door, 
But  the  Poppy  snored  loud  ere  the  parting  was  o'er, 
For  Night  her  last  candle  was  snuffing  away. 
And  Flora  grew  tired,  though  she  begged  them  to  stay; 
Exclaimed  "  all  the  watches  and  clocks  were  too  fast. 
And  old  Time  ran  in  spite,  lest  her  pleasure  should  last." 

But  when  the  last  guest  w^ent  with  daughter  and  wife, 
She  vowed  she  "  was  never  so  glad  in  her  life;" 
Called  out  to  her  maids,  who  with  weariness  wept. 
To  "wash  all  the  glasses  and  cups  ere  they  slept; 
For  Aurora,  that  pimp,  with  her  broad,  staring  eye. 
Always  tried  in  her  house  some  disorder  to  spy:" 
Then  she  sipped  some  pure  honey-dew,  fresh  from  the  lawn, 
And  with  Zephyrons  hasted  to  sleep  until  dawn. 


98 


WINTER. 


I  DEEM  thee  not  unlovely,  though  thou  com'st 
With  a  stern  visage.     To  the  tuneful  bird, 
The  blushing  flowret,  the  rejoicing  stream, 
Thy  dicipline  is  harsh.     But  unto  man 
Methinks  thou  hast  a  kindlier  ministry. 
Thy  lengthened  eve  is  full  of  fireside  joys, 
And  deathless  linking  of  warm  heart  to  heart. 
So  that  the  hoarse  storm  passes  by  unheard. 
Earth,  robed  in  white,  a  peaceful  sabbath  holds, 
And  keepeth  silence  at  her  Maker's  feet. 
She  ceaseth  from  the  harrowing  of  the  plough. 
And  from  the  harvest  shouting. 

Man  should  rest 
Thus  from  his  fevered  passions,  and  exhale 
The  unbreathed  carbon  of  his  festering  thought, 
And  drink  in  holy  health.     As  the  tost  bark 
Doth  seek  the  shelter  of  some  quiet  bay 
To  trim  its  shattered  cordage,  and  restore 
Its  riven  sails — so  should  the  toil-worn  mind 
Refit  for  Time's  rough  voyage.     Man,  perchance. 
Soured  by  the  world's  sharp  commerce,  or  impaired 
By  the  wild  wanderings  of  his  summer  way. 
Turns  like  a  truant  scholar  to  his  home. 
And  yields  his  nature  to  sweet  influences 
That  purify  and  save. 

The  ruddy  boy 
Comes  with  his  shouting  school-mates  from  their  sport, 
On  the  smooth,  frozen  lake,  as  the  first  star 


WINTER.  99 

Hangs  pure  and  cold  its  twinkling  cresset  forth, 
And  throwing  off  his  skates  with  boisterous  glee, 
Hastes  to  his  mother's  side.     Her  tender  hand 
Doth  shake  the  snow-flakes  from  his  glossy  curls, 
And  draw  him  nearer,  and  with  gentle  voice 
Ask  of  his  lessons,  while  her  lifted  heart 
Solicits  silently  the  Sire  of  Heaven 
To  "  bless  the  lad."     The  timid  infant  learns 
Better  to  love  its  sire — and  longer  sits 
Upon  his  knee,  and  with  a  velvet  lip 
Prints  on  his  brow  such  language,  as  the  tongue 
Hath  never  spoken. 

Come  thou  to  life's  feast 
With  dove-eyed  meekness,  and  bland  charity, 
And  thou  shalt  find  even  Winter's  rugged  blasts 
The  minstrel  teacher  of  thy  well  tuned-soul. 
And  when  the  last  drop  of  its  cup  is  drained— 
Arising  with  a  song  of  praise — go  up 
To  the  eternal  banquet. 


100 


THE  LAST  WORD  OF  THE  DYING. 


A  christian  friend,  in  the  last  moments  of  life,  when  it  was  supposed 
all  communication  with  mortals  had  ceased — spelt,  with  her  fingers,  in  the 
dialect  of  the  deaf  and  dumb,  the  word — "Mother." 


'Tis  o'er !— 'Tis  o'er ! 
That  lip  of  gentle  tone 
Doth  speak  to  man  no  more ; 
It  hath  given  the  parting  kiss 
To  him  with  whom  was  learned  to  prove 
The  climax  of  terrestial  bliss, 

Deep,  and  confiding  love ; 
It  hath  sighed  its  last  bequest 
On  the  weeping  sister's  breast, 
Its  work  is  done. 

The  soul  doth  wait  for  thee. 
Redeemer ! — strong  to  save 
Thy  ransomed  from  the  grave. 

It  waiteth  to  be  free. 
Still,  on  the  darkened  eye 
It  lingereth,  wishful  to  convey 
One  message  more,  to  frail  mortality. 
Then  soar  away. 

There  is  no  breath  to  speak, 
No  life-blood  in  the  cheek, 
Listening  Love  doth  strive  in  vain 
Those  pearls  of  thought  to  gain, 


LAST  WORD  OP  THE  DYING.  101 

Which  on  its  upward  track 
Tlius  from  Heaven's  threshold  bright,  the  spirit  throweth  back. 
But  with  remembered  skill 
The  hand  interprets  still, 
Though  speech  with  broken  lyre  is  faithless  to  the  will, 
Those  poor,  pale  fingers  weave  with  majestic  art. 
One  last,  lone  thrilling  word  to  echo  through  the  heart. 

"  Mother:' 
Oh  !  yet  a  moment  stay, 
Friend  ! — Friend  ! — what  would'st  thou  say  ] 
What  strong  emotion  with  that  word  doth  twine ! 
She,  whose  soft  hand  did  dry  thine  infant  tear, 
Hovereth  she  now,  with  love  divine 

Thy  dying  pillow  near] 
And  is  the  import  of  thy  sign 
That  she  is  here  ? 
Faithful  to  thine  extremest  need 
Descends  she  from  her  blissful  sphere, 

With  the  soft  welcome  of  an  angel's  reed 
Thy  passage  through  the  shadowy  vale  to  cheer? 

Or  doth  affection's  root 
So  to  earth's  soil  adhere — 

That  thou,  in  fond  pursuit, 
Still  turn'st  to  idols  dear? 
Drawest  thou  the  curtain  from  a  cherished  scene 
Once  more  with  yearning  to  survey 
The  little  student  over  his  book  serene. 

The  glad  one  at  his  play. 
The  blooming  babe  so  lately  on  thy  breast 
Cradled  to  rest —  ^ 

Those  three  fair  boys, 
Lingers  thy  soul  with  them,  even  from  heaven's  perfect  joys'? 
Say — wouldst  thou  teach  us  thus, how  strong  a  mother's  tie? 
That  when  all  others  fade  away, 
Stricken  down  in  mouldering  clay, 


102  LAST  WORD  OF  THE  DYING. 

Springs  up  with  agonizing  liold,  on  vast  eternity  1 
Fain  would  we  hear  thee  tell, 
But  ah  ! — the  closing  eye, 
The  fluttering,  moaning  sigh, 
Speak  forth  the  disembodied  friend's  farewell, 
We  toil  to  break  the  seal,  with  fruitless  pain. 
Time's  fellowship  is  riven  : — earth's  question  is  in  vain. 

Yet  we  shall  know 
Thy  mistery — thou  who  unexplained  hast  fled 
Where  secret  things  are  read, 
We  after  thee  shall  go 
In  the  same  path  of  woe 
Down  to  the  dead. 
Oh  Christ! — whose  changeless  trust 
Went  with  her  to  the  dust, 

Whose  spirit  free, 
Did  shield  her  from  the  victor's  power. 
Suffer  us  not,  in  Death's  dread  hour 
To  fall  from  Thee. 


103 


SCENE  AT  THE  DEATH-BED  OF  THE  REVE- 
REND DR.  PAYSON. 


"  The  eye  spoke  after  the  tongue  hecame  motionless.  Looking  on  his 
wife,  and  glancing  over  the  others  who  surrounded  his  bed,  it  rested  on  his 
eldest  son,  with  an  expression,  which  was  interpreted  by  all  present  to  say, 
as  plainly  as  if  he  had  uttered  the  words  of  the  beloved  disciple— 'Behold 
thy  mother.'" 

Memoir  of  the  Reverend  Edward  Payson. 


What  said  the  eye  %     The  marble  lip  spake  not, 

Save  in  that  quivering  sob  with  which  stern  Death 

Doth  crush  life's  harp-strings.     Lo  !  again  it  pours 

A  tide  of  more  than  uttered  eloquence, — 

"  Son !  look  upon  thy  mother,"  and  retires 

Beneath  the  curtain  of  the  drooping  lids 

To  hide  itself  for  ever.     Tis  the  last — 

Last  glance  ! — and  ah  I  how  tenderly  it  fell 

Upon  that  loved  companion  and  the  groups 

Who  wept  around.     Full  well  the  dying  knew 

The  value  of  those  holy  charities 

Which  purge  the  dross  of  selfishness  away  ;  !§% 

And  deep  he  felt  that  woman's  trusting  heart. 

Rent  from  the  cherished  prop  which,  next  to  Christ, 

Had  been  her  stay  in  all  adversities. 

Would  take  the  balm-cup  best  from  that  dear  hand 

Which  woke  the  sources  of  maternal  love ; 

That  smile  whose  winning  paid  for  sleepless  nights 

Of  cradle-cave,  that  voice  whose  murmured  tones 

Her  own  had  moulded  to  the  Words  of  prayer. 


;% 


104  DEATH  BED  OF  DR.  PAYSON. 

How  soothing  to  a  widowed  mother's  breast, 
Her  first-born's  sympathy. 

Be  strong,  young  man  ! 
Lift  the  protector's  arm,  the  healer's  prayer — 
Be  tender  in  thy  every  word  and  deed, 
A  Spirit  watcheth  thee  !     Yes,  He  who  past 
From  shaded  earth  up  to  the  full  orbed  day 
Will  be  thy  witness  in  the  court  of  heaven 
How  thou  dost  bear  his  mantle.     So  farewell, 
Leader  in  Israel !  Thou  whose  radiant  path 
Was  like  the  angel's  standing*  in  the  sun, 
Undazzled  and  unswerving,  it  was  meet 
That  thou  should'st  rise  to  light  without  a  cloud. 

Revelations,  six.  17. 


m 


105 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  HENRY  FIRST. 


Light  sped  a  bark  from  Gallia's  strand 

Across  the  azure  main, 
And  on  her  deck  a  joyous  band, 

A  proud  and  courtly  train, 
Surrounded  Albion's  princely  heir 

Who  toward  his  realm  returned, 
And  music's  cheering  strain  was  there, 

And  hearts  with  pleasure  burned. 

It  was  a  fair  and  glorious  sight 

That  gallant  bark  to  see, 
With  floating  streamers  glittering  bright 

In  pomp  of  chivalry : 
The  smooth  sea  kissed  her  as  she  flew, 

The  gentle  gale  impelled. 
As  if  each  crested  billow  knew 

What  wealth  her  bosom  held. 

But  strangely  o'er  the  summer  sky 

A  sable  cloud  arose, 
And  hollow  winds  careering  high 

Rushed  on  like  armed  foes ; 
Loud  thunders  roll — wild  tempests  rave, 

Red  lightnings  cleave  the  sky — 
What  is  yon  wreck  amid  the  wave  1 

And  whence  that  fearful  cry  ? 


106  THE    CHILDREN    OF    HENRY    FIRST. 

See  !  see  !  amid  the  foaming  surge 

Tliere  seems  a  speck  to  float, 
And  witli  such  speed  as  oars  can  urge 

Toils  on  the  labouring  boat, 
The  Prince  is  safe — but  to  his  ear 

There  fell  a  distant  shriek. 
Which  to  his  strained  eye  brought  the  tear, 

And  paleness  to  his  cheek. 

That  voice  !  'twas  by  his  cradle  side, 

When  with  sweet  dream  he  slept. 
It  ruled  his  wrath,  it  soothed  his  pride, 

When  moody  boyhood  wept, 
'Twas  with  him  in  his  hour  of  glee, 

Gay  sports  and  pastimes  rare. 
And  at  his  sainted  mother's  knee, 

Amid  the  evening  prayer. 

Plunging  he  dared  the  breakers  hoarse, 

None  might  the  deed  restrain, 
And  battled  with  a  maniac's  force 

The  madness  of  the  main: 
He  snatched  his  sister  from  the  wreck, 

Faint  was  her  accent  dear, 
Yet  strong  her  white  arms  'twined  his  neck- 

"  Blest  William  !  art  thou  here  ]" 

The  wild  waves  swelled  like  mountains  on, 

The  blasts  impetuous  sweep  ; 
Where  is  the  heir  of  England's  throne"? 

Go — ask  the  insatiate  deep  ! 
He  sleeps  in  Ocean's  coral  grove, 

Pale  pearls  his  bed  adorn, 
A  martyr  to  that  holy  love 

Which  with  his  life  was  born. 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    HENRY    FIRST.  107 

Woe  was  in  England's  halls  that  day. 

Woe  in  her  royal  towers, 
While  low  her  haughty  monarch  lay 

To  wail  his  smitten  flowers ; 
And  though  protracted  years  bestow 

Bright  honour's  envied  store, 
Yet  on  that  crowned  and  lofty  brow 

The  smile  sat  never  more. 


108 


THE  SILVER  AND  THE  GOLD  ARE  MINE. 


•  The  silver  is  mine,  and  the  gold  is  mine,— saith  the  Lord  of  Hosts." 

Haggai  II.  8. 


Whose  is  the  gold  that  glitters  in  the  mine, 
And  whose  the  silver  1     Are  they  not  the  Lord's! 
And  lo  !  the  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills, 
And  the  hroad  earth  with  all  her  gushing  spring. 
Are  they  not  his  who  made  them  1 

Ye  who  hold 
Slight  tenantry  therein,  and  call  your  lands 
By  your  own  names,  and  lock  your  gathered  gold 
From  him  who  in  his  bleeding  Saviour's  name 
Doth  ask  a  part,  whose  shall  those  riches  be 
When  like  the  grass-blade  from  the  autumn-frost, 
You  fall  away"? 

Point  out  to  me  the  forms 
That  in  your  treasure-chambers  shall  enact 
Glad  mastership,  and  revel  where  you  toiled, 
Sleepless  and  stern  1     Strange  faces  are  they  all. 
Oh  man  !  whose  wrinkling  labour  is  for  heirs. 
Thou  knowest  not  who,  thou  in  thy  mouldering  bed 
Unkenned,  unchronicled,  of  them  shalt  sleep. 
Nor  will  they  thank  thee  that  thou  didst  bereave 
Thy  soul  of  good  for  them. 

Now,  thou  mayest  give 
The  famished  food,  the  prisoner  liberty, 
Light  to  the  darkened  mind,  to  the  lost  soul 


THE    SILVER    AND    THE    OOLD    ARE    MINE.     109 

A  place  in  Heaven.     Take  thou  the  privilege 
With  solemn  gratitude.     Speak  as  thou  art 
Upon  earth's  surface,  gloriously  exult 
To  be  co-worker  with  the  King  of  kings. 


K 


110 


WINTER  HYMN. 


Thou  bidd'st  the  glorious  sun 

The  morning  landscape  light, 
While  mountains,  vales  and  hillocks  shine 

In  winter's  frost-work  bright. 

The  imploring  trees  stretch  forth 

Their  trusting  arras  to  Thee, 
Who  shield'st  the  naked  in  their  hour 

Of  cold  adversity. 

Thou  o'er  the  tender  germ 

The  curtaining  snow  dost  spread, 

And  give  it  slumber  as  a  babe 
Deep  in  its  cradle-bed. 

A  chain  is  on  the  streams, 

And  on  the  summer-flood. 
Yet  still  their  sparkling  eyes  look  up 

And  beam  with  gratitude. 

The  bee  hath  left  her  toil, 

Within  her  cell  to  sleep, 
The  warblinnr  tenants  of  the  air 

A  silent  sabbath  keep. 

Thou  mak'st  the  lengthened  eve, 

The  friend  of  wisdom  prove, 
And  bid'st  it  bind  confiding  hearts 

In  closer  links  of  love. 


WINTER    HYMN.  HI 

Oh  Thon,  the  God  of  Hope, 

Blest  Author  of  our  days, 
Forbid  that  Winter  chill  our  heart, 

Or  check  the  strain  of  praise. 


112 


BERNARDINE  DU  BORN. 


King  Henry  sat  upon  his  throne, 

And  full  of  wrath  and  scorn, 
His  eye  a  recreant  knight  surveyed — 

Sir  Bernardine  du  Born ; 
And  he,  that  haughty  glance  returned 

Like  lion  in  his  lair, 
And  loftily  his  unchanged  brow 

Gleamed  through  his  crisped  hair. 

"  Thou  art  a  traitor  to  the  realm, 

Lord  of  a  lawless  band, 
The  bold  in  speech,  the  fierce  in  broil. 

The  troubler  of  our  land  ; 
Thy  castles,  and  thy  rebel-towers. 

Are  forfeit  to  the  crown, 
And  thou,  beneath  the  Norman  axe 

Shalt  end  thy  base  renown. 

"  Delo-nest  thou  no  word  to  bar  thy  doom, 

Thou,  with  strange  madness  fired  ? 
Hath  reason  quite  forsook  thy  breast  ?" 

Plantagenet  inquired. 
Sir  Bernard  turned  him  toward  the  king. 

He  blenched  not  in  his  pride, 
"  My  reason  failed,  my  gracious  liege, 

Tlie  year  Prince  Henry  died.'''' 

Quick  at  that  name  a  cloud  of  woe 
Past  o'er  the  monarch's  brow, 


BERNARDINE  DU  BORN.  113 

Touched  was  that  bleeding  chord  of  love, 

To  which  the  mightiest  bow  : 
Again  swept  back  the  tide  of  years, 

Again  his  first  born  moved, 
The  fair,  the  graceful,  the  sublime, 

The  erring,  yet  beloved. 

And  ever,  cherished  by  his  side. 

One  chosen  friend  was  near. 
To  share  in  boyhood's  ardent  sport. 

Or  youth's  untamed  career. 
With  him  the  merry  chase  he  sought 

Beneath  the  dewy  morn. 
With  him  in  knightly  tourney  rode. 

This  Bernardine  du  Born. 

Then  in  the  mourning  father's  soul 

Each  trace  of  ire  grew  dim, 
And  what  his  buried  idol  loved 

Seemed  cleansed  of  guilt  to  him — 
And  faintly  through  his  tears  he  spake, 

"  God  send  his  grace  to  thee, 
And  for  the  dear  sake  of  the  dead, 

Go  forth — unscathed  and  free." 


K 


114 


COLD  WATER. 


The  thirsty  flowrets  droop.     The  parching  grass 
Doth  crisp  beneath  the  foot,  and  the  wan  trees 
Perish  for  lack  of  moisture.     By  the  side 
Of  the  dried  rills,  the  herds  despairing  stand, 
With  tongue  protruded.     Summer's  fiery  heat 
Exhaling,  checks  the  thousand  springs  of  life. 

Marked  ye  yon  cloud  sail  forth  on  angel-wing  1 
Heard  ye  the  herald-drops,  with  gentle  force 
Stir  the  broad  leaves  1 — and  the  protracted  rain 
Waking  the  streams  to  run  their  tuneful  way  ? 
Saw  ye  the  flocks  rejoice — and  did  ye  fail 
To  thank  the  God  of  fountains  ■? 

See  the  hart 
Pant  for  the  water-brooks.     The  fervid  sun 
Of  Asia  glitters  on  his  leafy  lair, 
As  fearful  of  the  lion's  wrath,  he  hastes 
With  timid  footstep  though  the  whispering  reeds. 
Quick  plunging  'mid  the  renovating  stream 
The  copious  draught  inspires  his  bounding  veins 
With  joyous  vigour. 

Patient  o'er  the  sands, 
The  burden-bearer  of  the  desert-clime, 
The  camel,  toileth.     Faint  with  deadly  thirst 
His  writhing  neck  of  bitter  anguish  speaks. 
Lo  ! — an  oasis,  and  a  tree-girt  well. 
And  moved  by  powerful  instinct,  on  he  speeds 
With  agonizing  speed — to  drink  or  die. 


COLD  WATER.  115 

On  his  swift  courser — o'er  the  burning  wild, 
The  Arab  cometh.     From  his  eager  eye 
Flashes  desire.     Seeks  he  the  sparkling  wine 
Giving  its  golden  colour  to  the  cup  1 
No ! — to  the  gushing  spring  he  flies,  and  deep 
Buries  his  scorching  lip  and  laves  his  brow, 
And  blesses  Allah. 

Christian  pilgrim,  come ! 
Thy  brother  of  the  Koran's  broken  creed 
Doth  teach  thee  wisdom,  and  with  courteous  hand 
Nature,  thy  mother,  holds  the  crystal  cup 
And  bids  thee  pledge  her  in  the  element 
Of  temperance  and  health. 

Drink  and  be  whole, 
And  purge  the  fever-poison  from  thy  veins. 
And  pass  in  purity  and  peace,  to  taste 
The  river  flowing  from  the  throne  of  God. 


116 


THE  AFRICAN  MOTHER  AT  HER  DAUGHTER'S 

GRAVE. 


Some  of  the  Pagan  Africans  visit  the  burial  places  of  their  departed 
relatives,  bearing  food  and  drink ; — and  mothers  have  been  knovv'n,  for  a 
long  course  of  years,  to  bring,  in  an  agony  of  grief,  their  annual  oblation 
to  the  tombs  of  their  children. 


Daughter  ! — I  bring  thee  food, 

The  rice-cake  pure  and  white, 
The  cocoa,  with  its  milky  blood, 

Dates  and  pomegranates  bright. 
The  orange  in  its  gold. 

Fresh  from  thy  favourite  tree. 
Nuts  in  their  ripe  and  husky  fold, 

Dearest !  I  spread  for  thee. 

Year  after  year  I  tread 

Thus  to  thy  low  retreat. 
But  now  the  snow-hairs  mark  my  head 

And  age  enchains  my  feet; 
Oh  !  many  a  change  of  woe 

Hath  dimmed  thy  spot  of  birth 
Since  first  my  gushing  tears  did  flow 

O'er  this  thy  bed  of  earth. 

There  came  a  midnight  cry. 
Flames  from  our  hamlet  rose. 


THE  AFRICAN  MOTHER.  1  17 

A  race  of  pale-browed  men  were  nigh, 

They  were  our  country's  foes. 
Thy  wounded  sire  was  borne 

By  tyrant  force  away, 
Thy  brothers  from  our  cabin  torn 

While  in  my  blood  I  lay. 

I  watched  for  their  return 

Upon  the  rocky  shore 
Till  night's  red  planets  ceased  to  burn, 

And  the  long  rains  were  o'er ; 
Till  seeds  their  hand  had  sown 

A  ripened  fruitage  bore. 
The  billows  echoed  to  my  moan, 

Yet  they  returned  no  more. 

But  thou  art  slumbering  deep. 

And  to  my  wildest  cry, 
When  pierced  with  agony  I  weep. 

Dost  render  no  reply. 
Daughter !  my  youthful  pride. 

The  idol  of  my  eye, 
Why  didst  thou  leave  thy  mother's  side 

Beneath  these  sands  to  lie? 

Long  o'er  the  hopeless  grave 

Where  her  lost  darling  slept. 
Invoking  gods  that  could  not  save 

That  Pagan  mourner  wept : 
Oh  !  for  some  voice  of  power 

To  sooth  her  bursting  sighs, 
"  There  is  a  resurrection  hour ! 

Thy  daughter's  dust  shall  rise  !" 

Christians  ! — Ye  hear  the  cry 
From  heathen  Afric's  strand. 


118  THE  AFRICAN  MOTHER. 

Haste !  lift  salvation's  banner  high 
O'er  that  benighted  land  ; 

With  faith  that  claims  the  skies 
Her  misery  control 

And  plant  the  hope  that  never  dies, 
Peep  in  her  tear-wet  soul. 


119 


THE  INSTITUTION. 


Come  to  thy  place,  thou  blessed  of  the  Lord, 
Come  up  into  thy  place.     The  tuneful  choir, 
The  solemn  organ,  with  its  gladdening  breath, 
The  sunbeam  pouring  through  the  tinted  pane 
A  flood  of  richness,  all  with  varied  voice 
Do  give  thee  welcome.     But  there  flows  a  tide 
Of  deeper  gratulation  through  those  hearts 
Which  hail  thee  as  Jehovah's  messenger 
To  them  for  good.     Yea,  enter  in,  and  take 
Thy  holy  office.     With  the  Spirit's  power 
Preach  thou  repentance — aid  the  victor-strife 
O'er  vanity  and  sin;  lead  hungering  souls 
To  their  Redeemer's  feast ;  instruct  to  wear 
The  rose-bud  garland  of  prosperity 
With  chastened  joy,  and  ever  through  the  maze 
Of  earthly  discipline,  to  recognize 
A  Father's  hand. 

Come  to  our  hearths,  our  homes, 
And  as  our  infants  climb  upon  thy  knee 
Speak  of  His  lessons  and  His  love,  who  bade 
Such  little  ones,  with  unforbidden  trust. 
Cling  to  his  bosom.     So  their  hearts  shall  blend 
The  incipient  knowledge  of  a  law  divine 
With  thy  paternal  smile.     Come,  when  the  hour 
Of  sickness  darkens — when  the  nightly  clock 
Is  told  in  anguish,  and  the  stifled  step 
Of  the  meek  watcher  is  a  weariness, 


120  THE  INSTITUTION. 

Come  with  the  gospel's  balm,  and  like  the  dew 
Of  Hermon,  to  the  fainting  lily — cheer 
The  sufferer's  spirit. 

When  the  brow  is  blanched, 
And  the  cold,  quivering  lip  doth  feebly  spurn 
Time's  last  poor  water-drop — then  be  thou  near ; 
Yea,  when  the  dull  ear  to  affection's  tone 
No  longer  vibrates,  lift  thy  fervent  prayer 
And  to  the  waiting  angels'  outspread  wing. 
And  to  the  Everlasting  Shepherd's  arms, 
Commend  the  parting  soul. 

When  the  pale  clay 
That  love  hath  worshipped,  to  the  open  grave 
In  funeral  vestments  cometh,  stand  thou  there. 
And  by  the  might  of  thine  ascended  Lord 
Adjure  the  pit  to  render  back  its  trust 
A  glorious  body  when  the  archangel's  trump 
Heralds  eternity. 

So  guide  thy  flock 
Faithful  in  all  their  need,  whether  their  path 
By  crystal  streams  shall  wind,  with  flowers  besprent, 
Or  sad  through  withering  pastures,  where  the  vine 
Yieldeth  no  fruit,  and  winter's  stormy  wrath 
Doth  desolate  the  fold,  so  guide  them  still. 
And  girded  by  their  blessings  and  their  prayers. 
Go  on  in  priestly  sanctity  to  God. 


i 


121 


ON  THE    DEATH  OF  A  MOTHER,  SOON  AFTER 
HER  INFANT  SON. 


There's  a  cry  from  that  cradle-bed, 
The  voice  of  an  infant's  woe ; 
Hark !  hark  !  to  the  mother's  rushing  tread, 
In  her  bosom's  fold  she  hath  hid  his  head, 
And  his  wild  tears  cease  to  flow. 
Yet  he  must  weep  again. 
And  when  his  eye  shall  know 
The  burning  brine  of  manhood's  pain 
Or  youth's  unuttered  woe, 
That  mother  fair 
With  her  full  tide  of  sympathies,  alas  !  may  not  be  there. 
On  earth,  the  tree  of  weeping  grows 
Fast  by  man's  side  where'er  he  goes, 
And  o'er  his  brightest  joys,  its  bitterest  essence  flows. 

But  she,  from  her  sweet  home 
So  lately  fled  away, 
She  for  whose  buried  smile  the  fond  heart  mourns  this  day, 

Hath  tasted  rapture  undefiled; 
She  hath  gone  to  her  child — she  hath  gone  to  her  child. 
Where  sorrow  may  never  come. 

He  was  the  precious  one, 
The  prayed  for,  the  adored — 


122       ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MOTHER. 

And  from  each  rising  sun 
Till  Night  her  balmy  cup  of  silence  poured, 
For  him  the  paths  of  knowledge  she  explored, 
Feeding  his  eager  mind  with  seraph's  bread. 
Till  intellectual  light  o'er  his  fair  features  spread. 
But  ah  !  he  bowed  to  die, 
Strange  darkness  sealed  his  eye, 
And  there  he  lay,  like  marble  in  his  shroud ; 
He,  at  whose  infant  might  even  trembling  Love  was  proud. 
Yet  she  who  bore  him  shrank  not  'neath  the  rod, 
Laying  her  chastened  soul  low  at  the  feet  of  God. 
Now  is  her  victory  won, 
Her  strife  of  battle  o'er. 
She  hath  found  her  son — she  hath  found  her  son, 
Where  Death  is  a  king  no  more. 

She  hath  gone  to  see  how  bright  doth  shine 
In  eternity's  sphere  that  lamp  divine, 
Which  here  'mid  the  storms  of  earth  severe 
She  tenderly  nursed  with  a  mother's  fear : 
Forgotten  are  all  her  toils, 

The  pang  hath  left  no  trace. 
When  Memory  hoardeth  in  Heaven  its  spoils 
These  have  no  place. 

Mothers  I  whose  speechless  care. 
Whose  unrequited  sigh. 
Weary  arm  and  sleepless  eye 
Change  the  fresh  rose-bud  on  the  cheek  to  paleness  and  despair, 

Look  up !  Look  up  to  the  bountiful  sky, 
Earth  may  not  pay  your  debt,  your  record  is  on  high. 

Ye  have  gazed  in  doubt  on  the  plants  that  drew 
From  your  gentle  hand  their  nightly  dew — 
Ye  have  given  with  trembling  your  morning  kiss, 
Ye  have  sown  in  pain — ye  shall  reap  in  bliss ; 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MOTHER.        123 

The  mother's  tear,  the  mother's  prayer, 
In  faith  for  her  offspring  given. 
Shall  be  counted  as  pearls  at  the  judgment-bar, 
And  win  the  gold  of  heaven. 


124 


THE  WIDOW  OF  ZAREPHATH. 


There  fell  no  rain  on  Israel.     The  sad  trees, 
Reft  of  their  coronals,  and  the  crisp  vines, 
And  flowers  whose  dewless  bosoms  sought  the  dust, 
Mourned  the  long  drought.     The  miserable  herds 
Pined  on,  and  perished  'mid  the  scorching  fields, 
And  near  the  vanished  fountains  where  they  used 
Freely  to  slake  their  thirst,  the  moaning  flocks 
Laid  their  parched  mouths,  and  died. 

A  holy  man, 
Who  saw  high  visions  of  unuttered  things. 
Dwelt  in  deep-musing  solitude  apart 
Upon  the  banks  of  Cherith.     Dark  winged  birds. 
Intractable  and  fierce,  were  strangely  moved 
To  shun  the  hoarse  cries  of  their  callow  brood. 
And  night  and  morning  lay  their  gathered  spoils 
Down  at  his  feet.     So,  of  the  brook  he  drank. 
Till  pitiless  suns  exhaled  that  slender  rill 
Which  singing,  used  to  glide  to  Jordan's  breast. 
Then,  warned  of  God,  he  rose  and  went  his  way 
Unto  the  coast  of  Zidon.     Near  the  gates 
Of  Zerephath,  he  marked  a  lowly  cell 
Where  a  pale,  drooping  widow,  in  the  depth 
Of  desolate  and  hopeless  poverty. 
Prepared  the  last,  scant  morsel  for  her  son, 
That  he  might  eat  and  die. 

The  man  of  God 
Entering,  requested  food.     Whether  that  germ 


THE  WIDOW  OP  ZAREPHATH.  125 

Of  self-denying  fortitude,  which  stirs 

Sometimes  in  woman's  soul,  and  nerves  it  strong 

For  life's  severe  and  unapplauded  tasks, 

Sprang  up  at  his  appeal,  or  whether  He 

Who  ruled  the  ravens,  wrought  within  her  heart, 

I  cannot  say,  but  to  the  stranger's  hand 

She  gave  the  bread.     Then,  round  the  famished  boy 

Clasping  her  widowed  arras,  she  strained  him  close 

To  her  wan  bosom,  while  his  hollow  eye 

Wondering  and  wishfully  regarded  her 

With  ill-subdued  reproach. 

A  blessing  fell 
From  the  majestic  guest,  and  every  morn 
The  empty  store  which  she  had  wept  at  eve, 
Mysteriously  replenished  woke  the  joy 
That  ancient  Israel  felt,  when  round  their  camp 
The  manna  lay  like  dew.     Thus  many  days 
They  fed,  and  the  poor  famine-stricken  boy 
Looked  up  with  a  clear  eye,  while  vigorous  health 
Flushed  with  unwonted  crimson  his  pure  cheek, 
And  bade  the  fair  flesh  o'er  his  wasted  limbs 
Come  like  a  garment.     The  lone  widow  mused 
On  her  changed  lot,  yet  to  Jehovah's  name 
Gave  not  the  praise,  but  when  the  silent  moon 
Moved  forth  all  radiant,  on  her  star-girt  throne, 
Uttered  a  heathen's  gratitude,  and  hailed 
In  the  deep  chorus  of  Zidonian  song 
"  Astarte,  queen  of  Heaven  !" 

But  then  there  came 
A  day  of  wo.     That  gentle  boy,  in  whom 
His  mother  lived,  for  whom  alone  she  deemed 
Time's  weary  heritage  a  blessing,  died. 
Wildly  the  tides  of  passionate  grief  broke  forth, 
And  on  the  prophet  of  the  Lord,  her  lip 
Called  with  indignant  frenzy.     So  he  came 
And  from  her  bosom  took  the  breathless  clay, 
And  bore  it  to  his  chamber.     There  he  knelt 


126  THE  WIDOW  OP  ZAREPHATH. 

In  supplication,  that  the  dead  might  live. 

He  rose,  and  looked  upon  the  child.     His  cheek 

Of  marble  meekly  on  the  pillow  lay, 

While  round  his  polished  forehead,  the  bright  curls 

Clustered  redundantly.     So  sweetly  slept 

Beauty  and  innocence  in  Death's  embrace, 

It  seemed  a  mournful  thing  to  waken  them. 

Another  prayer  arose — and  he,  whose  faith 

Had  power  o'er  Nature's  elements,  to  seal 

The  dripping  cloud,  to  wield  the  lightning's  dart, 

And  soon,  from  death  escaping,  was  to  soar 

On  car  of  flame  up  to  the  throne  of  God, 

Long,  long,  with  labouring  breast,  and  lifted  eyes, 

Solicited  in  anguish.     On  the  dead 

Once  more  the  prophet  gazed.     A  rigor  seemed 

To  settle  on  those  features,  and  the  hand. 

In  its  immovable  coldness,  told  how  firm 

Was  the  dire  grasp  of  the  insatiate  grave. 

The  awful  seer  laid  down  his  humble  lip 

Low  to  the  earth,  and  his  whole  being  seemed 

With  concentrated  agony  to  pour 

Forth  in  one  agonizing,  voiceless  strife 

Of  intercession.     Who  shall  dare  to  set 

Limits  to  prayer,  if  it  hath  entered  heaven, 

And  won  a  spirit  down  to  its  dense  robe 

Of  earth  again? 

Look !  look  upon  the  boy ! 
There  was  a  trembling  of  the  parted  lip, 
A  sob — a  shiver — from  the  half-sealed  eye 
A  flash  like  morning — and  the  soul  came  back 
To  its  frail  tenement. 

The  prophet  raised 
The  renovated  child,  and  on  that  breast 
Which  gave  the  life-stream  of  its  infancy 
Laid  the  fair  head  once  more 

If  ye  would  know 
Aught  of  that  wildering  trance  of  ecstacy, 


THE  WIDOW  OP  ZAREPIIATH.  127 

Go  ask  a  mother's  heart,  but  question  not 
So  poor  a  thing  as  language.     Yet  the  soul 
Of  her  of  Zarephath,  in  that  blest  hour 
Believed, — and  with  the  kindling  glow  of  faith 
Turned  from  vain  idols  to  the  living  God. 


128 


HEAVEN  BRIGHTER  THAN  EARTH. 


Oh!  make  Heaven  seem  brighter  than  this  world." 

Dying  worda  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bruen. 


Those  skies,  no  night  that  wear, 

Nor  cloud  nor  tempest  know, 
Those  flowers  no  blight  that  bear, 

Those  streams  that  stainless  flow — 
Are  they  not  brighter  far 

Than  all  that  lures  us  here  ? 
Where  storms  may  fright  each  timid  star 

From  Midnight's  lonely  sphere. 

Here,  Hope  of  sorrow  drinks, 

Here  Beauty  fades  with  care. 
And  Virtue  from  Temptation  shrinks, 

And  Folly  finds  Despair ; 
But  'mid  that  world  above 

No  baneful  step  may  stray, 
The  white-winged  seraph's  glance  oflove 

Would  melt  each  ill  away. 

Friendship  is  there  the  guest 

Of  chilling  doubt  no  more. 
And  Love,  with  thornless  breast, 

Whose  pangs  and  fears  are  o'er : 


HEAVEN  BRIGHTER  THAN  EARTH.  129 

There  is  no  farewell  sigh 

Throughout  that  blessed  clime, 
No  mourning  voice,  nor  severed  tie, 

Nor  change  of  hoary  time. 

Why  plant  the  cypress  near 

The  pillow  of  the  just  ] 
Why  dew  with  murmuring  tear 

Their  calm  and  holy  dust? 
Rear  there  the  rose's  pride, 

Bid  the  young  myrtle  bloom. 
Fit  emblems  of  their  joys  who  bide 

Beyond  the  insatiate  tomb. 

'Mid  that  celestial  place 

Our  soaring  thoughts  would  glow, 
Even  while  we  run  this  pilgrim-race 

Of  weariness  and  woe; 
For  who  would  shrink  from  death 

With  sharp  and  icy  hand. 
Or  heed  the  pangs  of  shortening  breath, 

To  win  that  glorious  land  ] 


130 


SUDDEN  DEATH  OF  A  LADY. 


No  sound  the  ear  of  Midnight  heard, 

No  ripple  woke  the  stream, 
No  breath  the  slumbering  rose-leaf  stirred 

Nor  marred  Affection's  dream  : 
On  Winter's  pavement,  sheen  and  cold. 

There  was  no  echoing  tread. 
No  hand  upon  the  curtain's  fold. 

Yet  on  the  Spoiler  sped. 

The  Spoiler  Spirit !  what  sought  he 

Within  that  blissful  bower  !— 
The  gold  on  which  Care  turns  the  key 

To  thwart  the  robber's  power ! 
Pale,  gleaming  pearls  that  er'st  did  glow 

Down  in  the  deep,  dark  seas  1 
The  diamond  or  the  ruby  ?  No  ! 

He  came  not  forth  for  these. 

Morn  rose,  and  sweet  the  sabbath-bell 

From  tower  and  dell  did  break. 
And  with  a  high  and  solemn  swell 

Glad  praise  God's  temple  spake : 
But  where  is  she,  with  form  of  grace. 

With  cheek  serenely  fair. 
Who  near  God's  altar  loved  the  place "? 

Go  ask  the  Spoiler  where  .' 


SUDDEN  DEATH  OF  A  LADY.  131 

Slow  Evening  veiled  yon  rifled  bower, 

An  infant  group  are  there, 
Why  doth  no  mother  mark  the  hour 

To  hear  their  murmured  prayer  I 
And  why  doth  griefs  unwonted  tide 

O'erflow  their  wondering  eye  1 
They  mourn  to  think  their  angel-guide 

Should  turn  from  them,  and  die. 

Dear,  beauteous  babes  I  On  you  the  morn 

Fresh  beams  of  hope  shall  pour. 
Ye  know  not  from  your  arms  is  torn 

What  earth  can  ne'er  restore  : 
Yet  one  is  near,  whose  widowed  breast, 

Whose  brow,  stern  Sorrow's  prey. 
In  lines  too  strong  for  speech,  attest 

What  Death  hath  borne  away. 

Love  yields  the  grave  its  idol-trust. 

While  the  rent  heart-strings  bleed. 
But  Faith,  whose  pinion  scorns  the  dust, 

Blames  not  the  Spoiler's  deed  ; 
A  new  and  tuneful  lyre  she  hears, 

Where  joys  forever  bloom, 
And  bids  us  through  our  blinding  tears 

Write  blessed  on  the  tomb. 


132 


THE  VALLEY  OF  JEHOSHAPHAT. 


Come,  Son  of  Israel,  scorned  in  every  land, 

Outcast  and  wandering — come  with  mournful  step 

Down  to  the  dark  vale  of  Jehoshaphat, 

And  weigh  the  remnant  of  thy  hoarded  gold 

To  buy  thyself  a  grave  among  the  bones 

Of  patriarchs  and  of  prophets,  and  of  kings. 

It  is  a  glorious  place  to  take  thy  rest, 

Poor  child  of  Abraham,  'mid  those  awful  scenes, 

And  sceptred  monarchs,  who  with  Faith's  keen  eye 

Piercing  the  midnight  darkness  that  o'erhung 

Messiah's  coming,  gave  their  dying  flesh 

Unto  the  worm,  with  such  a  lofty  trust 

In  the  strong  promise  of  the  invisible. 

Here  are  damp  gales  to  lull  thy  dreamless  sleep, 

And  murmuring  recollections  of  that  lyre 

Whose  passing  sweetness  bore  King  David's  prayer 

Up  to  the  ear  of  Heaven,  and  of  that  strain 

With  which  the  weeping  prophet  dirge-like  sung 

Doomed  Zion's  visioned  woes.     Yon  rifted  rocks. 

So  faintly  purpled  by  the  westering  sun, 

Reveal  the  unguarded  walls,  the  silent  towers, 

Where  in  her  stricken  pomp,  Jerusalem 

Sleeps  like  a  palsied  princess,  from  whose  head 

The  diadem  hath  fallen.     Still  half-concealed 

In  the  deep  bosom  of  that  burial-vale 

A  fitful  torrent,  'neath  its  time-worn  arch 

Hurries  with  hoarse  tale  mid  the  echoing  tombs. 

Thou  too  art  near,  rude-featured  Olivet, 

So  honoured  of  my  Saviour. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  JEHOSHAPHAT.       133 

Tell  we  where 
His  blessed  knees  thy  flinty  bosom  prest, 
When  all  night  long  his  wrestling  prayer  went  up  ; 
That  I  may  pour  my  tear-wet  orison 
Upon  that  sacred  spot.     Thou  Lamb  of  God  ! 
Who  for  our  sakes  wert  wounded  unto  death, 
Bid  blinded  Zion  turn  from  Sinai's  fires 
Her  tortured  foot,  and  from  the  thundering  law 
Her  terror-stricken  ear  rejoicing  raise 
Unto  the  Gospel's  music.     Bring  again 
Thy  scattered  people  who  so  long  have  borne 
A  fearful  punishment,  so  long  wrung  out 
The  bitter  dregs  of  pale  astonishment 
Into  the  wine-cup  of  the  wondering  earth. 
And  oh !  to  us,  who  from  our  being's  dawn 
Lisp  out  Salvation's  lessons,  yet  do  stray 
Like  erring  sheep,  to  us  thy  Spirit  give. 
That  we  may  keep  thy  law,  and  find  thy  fold, 
Ere  in  the  desolate  city  of  the  dead 
We  make  our  tenement,  while  Earth  doth  blot 
Our  history  from  the  record  of  mankind. 


M 


134 


FAREWELL  TO  AN  ANCIENT  CHURCH. 


Farewell,  thou  consecrated  dome, 

Whence  prayer  and  chant  and  anthem  rose, 

Whose  walls  have  given  meek  hope  a  home, 
And  tearful  penitence,  repose. 

Here  gathered  round  her  shepherd-guide 

A  flock,  to  the  Redeemer  dear, 
While  praise  in  full  responsive  tide 

Soared  heavenward,  to  its  native  sphere. 

Here  at  this  altar's  hallowed  side. 
Oft  was  the  bond  of  deathless  love 

Sealed  by  the  kneeling,  trembling  bride — 
Where  is  that  bride  ?     Perchance  above. 

The  mother  here  her  infant  drew. 
Unscathed  by  sin,  or  sorrrow's  rod, 

To  win  the  pure,  baptismal  dew — 
Where  is  that  mother  ?     Ask  of  God. 

And  duly  here  have  childhood's  train 
Bowed  to  Instruction's  mildest  sway ; 

But  were  those  ceaseless  lessons  vain  ? 
The  page  of  doom  alone  can  say. 

Here  many  a  brow  in  beauty's  prime 
Hath  faded,  like  the  rose-tinged  cloud, 

And  many  a  head  grown  white  with  time. 
That  towered  in  manhood's  glory  proud. 


FAREWELL  TO  AN  ANCIENT  CHURCH.  135 

Oh  !  if  from  yon  celestial  place, 

Bright  bands  regard  a  world  like  this, 
Here  many  a  sainted  soul  may  trace 

The  birth-place  of  its  endless  bliss. 

With  tenderest  recollections  fraught, 
How  do  these  parting  moments  swell ! 

Thou  ancient  nurse  of  holy  thought, 
Dear,  venerated  friend,  farewell ! 


136 


CONSECRATION  OF  A  CHURCH. 


"  Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  hallowed  gates,  and  give 
The  King  of  Glory  room." 

And  then  a  strain 
Of  solemn,  trembling  melody  inquired, 
"  Who  is  the  King  of  Glory  T" 

But  a  sound 
Brake  from  the  echoing  temple,  like  the  rush 
Of  many  waters,  blent  with  organ's  breath, 
And  the  soul's  harp,  and  the  uplifted  voice 
Of  prelate,  and  of  people,  and  of  priest 
Responding  joyously — "  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 
He  is'the  King  of  Glory." 

Enter  in. 
To  this  his  new  abode,  and  with  glad  heart 
Kneel  low  before  his  footstool.     Supplicate 
That  favouring  presence  which  doth  condescend 
From  the  pavilion  of  high  heaven  to  beam 
On  earthly  temples,  and  in  contrite  souls. 
Here  fade  all  vain  distinctions  that  the  pride 
Of  man  can  arrogate.     This  house  of  prayer 
Doth  teach  that  all  are  sinners — all  have  strayed 
Like  erring  sheep.     The  wealthy  or  the  poor, 
The  bright  or  ebon  brow,  the  pomp  of  power. 
The  boast  of  intellect,  what  are  they  here? 
Man  sinks  to  nothing  while  he  deals  with  God. 
Yet  let  the  grateful  hymn,  as  those  who  share 
A  boundless  tide  of  blessings — those  who  tread 
Their  pilgrim  path,  rejoicing  in  the  hope 


CONSECRATION  OF  A  CHURCH.  137 

Of  an  ascended  Saviour — through  these  walls 

Forever  flow.     Their  dedicated  dome  ! 

Still  in  thy  majesty  and  beauty  stand, 

Stand,  and  give  praise,  until  the  rock-ribbed  earth 

In  her  last  throes  shall  tremble.     Then  dissolve 

Into  thy  native  dust,  with  one  long  sigh 

Of  melody,  while  the  redeemed  souls 

That  'neath  thine  arch  to  endless  life  were  born. 

Go  up  on  wings  of  glory,  to  the  "house 

Not  made  with  hands." 


M  * 


138 


TO  A  DYING  INFANT. 


Go  to  thy  rest,  my  child  ! 

Go  to  thy  dreamless  bed, 
Gentle  and  undefiled. 

With  blessings  on  thy  head ; 
Fresh  roses  in  thy  hand, 

Buds  on  thy  pillow  laid. 
Haste  from  this  fearful  land, 

Where  flowers  so  quickly  fade. 

Before  thy  heart  might  learn 

In  waywardness  to  stray. 
Before  thy  feet  could  turn 

The  dark  and  downward  way  ; 
Ere  sin  might  wound  the  breast. 

Or  sorrow  wake  the  tear, 
Rise  to  thy  home  of  rest. 

In  yon  celestial  sphere. 

Because  thy  smile  was  fair. 

Thy  lip  and  eye  so  bright. 
Because  thy  cradle-care 

Was  such  a  fond  delight, 
Shall  Love  with  weak  embrace 

Thy  heavenward  flight  detain  1 
No  !  Angel,  seek  thy  place 

Amid  yon  cherub-train. 


139 


THE  HEART  OF  KING  ROBERT  BRUCE. 


"When  he  found  his  end  drew  nigh,  that  great  king  snnnnoned  his 
barons  and  peers  around  him,  and,  singling  out  the  good  Lord  James  of 
Douglas,  fondly  entreated  him,  as  his  old  friend  and  companion  in  arms,  to 
cause  his  heart  to  be  taken  from  his  body,  after  death,  and  to  transport  it 
to  Palestine,  in  redemption  of  a  vow  which  he  had  made  to  go  thither  in 
person." 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  Hilary  of  Scotland. 


King  Robert  bore  with  gasping  breath 

The  strife  of  mortal  pain, 
And  orathering  round  the  couch  of  death, 

His  nobles  mourned  in  vain. 
Bathed  were  his  brows  in  chilling  dew 

As  thus  he  faintly  cried, 
"  Red  Comyn  in  his  sins  I  slew 

At  the  high  altar's  side. 

"  For  this,  a  vow  my  soul  hath  bound 

In  armed  lists  to  ride, 
A  warrior  to  that  Holy  Ground 

Where  my  Redeemer  died : 
Lord  James  of  Douglas,  see  !  we  part ! 

I  die  before  my  time, 
I  charge  thee  bear  this  pulseless  heart 

A  pilgrim  to  that  clime." 

He  ceased,  for  lo!  in  close  pursuit,* 

With  fierce  and  fatal  strife. 
He  came,  who  treads  with  icy  foot 

Upon  the  lamp  of  life. 


140         THE  HEART  OF  KING  ROBERT  BRUCE. 

The  brave  Earl  Douglas,  trained  to  meet 

Dangers  and  perils  wild, 
Now  kneeling  at  his  sovereign's  feet 

Wept  as  a  weaned  child. 

Beneath  Dunfirmline's  hallowed  nave, 

Enwrapt  in  cloth  of  gold. 
The  Brace's  relics  found  a  grave 

Deep  in  their  native  mould ; 
But  locked  within  its  silver  vase, 

Next  to  Lord  James's  breast. 
His  heart  went  journeying  on  apace. 

In  Palestine  to  rest. 

While  many  a  noble  Scottish  knight. 

With  sable  shield  and  plume. 
Rode  as  its  guard  in  armour  bright 

To  kiss  their  Saviour's  tomb. 
As  on  the  scenery  of  Spain 

They  bent  a  traveller's  eye. 
Forth  came  in  bold  and  glorious  train. 

Her  flower  of  chivalry. 

Led  by  Alphonso  'gainst  the  Moor, 

They  came  in  proud  array. 
And  set  their  sorried  phalanx  sure 

To  bide  the  battle-fray. 
"  God  save  ye  now,  ye  gallant  band 

Of  Scottish  warriors  true. 
Good  service  for  the  Holy  Land 

Ye  on  this  field  may  do." 

So  with  the  cavalry  of  Spain 
In  brother's  grasp  they  closed, 

And  the  gr^m  Saracen  in  vain 
Their  blended  might  opposed. 

But  Douglas  with  his  falcon-glance 
O'erlooking  crest  and  spear, 


THE  HEART  OP  KING  ROBERT  BRUCE,       141 

Saw  brave  St.  Clair  with  broken  lance, 
That  friend  from  childhood  dear. 

He  saw  him  by  a  thousand  foes 

Opprest  and  overborne, 
And  high  the  blast  of  rescue  rose 

From  his  good  bugle-horn  ; 
And  reckless  of  the  Moorish  spears 

In  bristling  ranks  around 
His  monarch's  heart  oft  steeped  in  tears 

He  from  his  neck  unbound, 

And  flung  it  toward  the  battle  front, 

And  cried  with  panting  breath, 
"  Fass  first,  my  liege,  as  thou  wert  wont — 

I  follow  thee  to  death." 
Stern  Osmyn's  sword  was  dire  that  day, 

And  keen  the  Moorish  dart, 
And  there  Earl  Douglas  bleeding  lay 

Beside  the  Bruce's  heart. 

Embalmed  with  Scotland's  flowing  tears. 

That  peerless  champion  fell. 
And  still  the  lyre  to  future  years 

His  glorious  deeds  shall  tell, 
The  ^^ good  Lord  James^'  that  honoured  name 

Each  Scottish  babe  shall  call. 
And  all  who  love  the  Bruce's  fame 

Shall  mourn  the  Douglas'  fall. 


142 


"'TWAS  BUT  A  BABE.' 


I  ASKED  them  why  the  verdant  turf  was  riven 

From  its  young  rooting,  and  with  silent  lip 

They  pointed  to  a  new-made  chasm  among 

The  marble-pillared  mansions  of  the  dead. 

Who  goeth  to  his  rest  in  yon  damp  couch'? 

The  tearless  crowd  past  on — "  't  was  but  a  babe." 

Ji  babe  ! — And  poise  ye  in  the  rigid  scales 

Of  calculation,  the  fond  bosom's  wealth  1 

Rating  its  priceless  idols  as  ye  weigh 

Such  merchandise  as  moth  and  rust  corrupt, 

Or  the  rude  robber  steals  %     Ye  mete  out  grief, 

Perchance,  when  youth,  maturity  or  age, 

Sink  in  the  thronging  tomb,  but  when  the  breath 

Grows  icy  on  the  lip  of  innocence 

Repress  your  measured  sympathies,  and  say 

'•'■''Twas  but  a  babe.'" 

What  know  ye  of  her  love 
Who  patient  watcheth  till  the  stars  grow  dim 
Over  her  drooping  infant,  with  an  eye 
Bright  as  unchanging  Hope  if  his  repose  1 
What  know  ye  of  her  woe  who  sought  no  joy 
More  exquisite,  than  on  his  placid  brow 
To  trace  the  glow  of  health,  and  drink  at  dawn 
The  thrilling  lustre  of  his  waking  smile  1 

Go  ask  that  musing  father  why  yon  grave 
So  narrow,  and  so  noteless  might  not  close 
Without  a  tear  1 


't  was  but  a  babe.  143 

And  though  his  lip  bo  mute, 
Feeling  the  poverty  of  speech,  to  give 
Fit  answer  to  thee,  still  his  pallid  brow 
And  the  deep  agonizing  prayer  that  loads 
Midnight's  dark  wing  to  him  the  God  of  strength, 
May  satisfy  thy  question. 

Ye  who  mourn 
Whene'er  yon  vacant  cradle,  or  the  robes 
That  decked  the  lost  one's  form,  call  back  a  tide 
Of  alienated  joy,  can  ye  not  trust 
Your  treasure  to  His  arms,  whose  changeless  care 
Passeth  a  mother's  level     Can  ye  not  hope, 
When  a  few  hasting  years  their  course  have  run, 
To  go  to  him,  though  he  no  more  on  earth 
Returns  to  youT 

And  when  glad  Faith  doth  catch 
Some  echo  of  celestial  harmonies. 
Archangels'  praises,  with  the  high  response 
Of  cherubim,  and  seraphim,  oh  think — 
Think  that  your  babe  is  there. 


144 


"ONLY  THIS  ONCE." 


Exodus  X.  17. 


"  Only  this  once,'''' — the  wine-cup  glowed 
All  sparkling  with  its  ruby  ray, 

The  Bacchanalian  welcome  flowed 
And  Folly  made  the  revel  gay. 

Then  he,  so  long,  so  deeply  warned, 
The  sway  of  conscience  rashly  spurned, 

His  promise  of  repentance  scorned, 
And  coward-like  to  vice  returned. 

"  Oiily  this  once.'''' — The  tale  is  told, 
He  wildly  quaffed  the  poisonous  tide. 

With  more  than  Esau's  madness  sold 
The  birth-right  of  his  soul — and  died. 

I  do  not  say  that  breath  forsook 
The  clay,  and  left  its  pulses  dead, 

But  reason  in  her  empire  shook. 
And  all  the  life  of  life  was  fled. 

Again  his  eyes  the  landscape  viewed. 
His  limbs  again  their  burden  bore. 

And  years  their  wonted  course  renewed. 
But  hope  and  peace  returned  no  more. 


ONLY  THIS  ONCE.  145 

And  angel-eyes  with  pity  wept 

When  he  whom  virtue  fain  would  save, 

His  sacred  vow  so  falsely  kept, 

And  strangely  sought  a  drunkard's  grave. 

"  Only  this  once.^^ — Beware, — beware  ! — 

Gaze  not  upon  the  blushing  wine, 
Repel  temptation's  syren-snare, 

And  prayerful  seek  for  strength  divine. 


N 


146 


THE  KNELL. 


A  SILVER  sound  was  on  the  summer-air, 
And  yet  it  was  not  music.     The  sweet  birds 
Went  warbling  wildly  forth  from  grove  and  dell 
Their  thrilling  harmonies,  yet  this  low  tone 
Chimed  not  with  them.     But  in  the  secret  soul 
There  was  a  deep  response,  troubling  the  fount 
Where  bitter  tears  are  born.    Too  well  I  knew 
The  tomb's  prelusive  melody.     I  turned, 
And  sought  the  house  of  mourning. 

Ah,  pale  friend  ! 
Who  speak'st  not — look'st  not — dost  not  give  the  hand, 
Hath  love  so  perished  in  that  pulseless  breast. 
Once  its  own  throne  1 

Thou  silent,  changeless  one, 
The  seal  is  on  thy  virtues  now  no  more. 
Like  ours  to  tremble  in  temptation's  hour. 
Perchance,  to  fall.    Fear  hath  no  longer  power 
To  chill  thy  life-stream,  and  frail  hope  doth  fold 
Her  rainbow  wing,  and  sink  to  rest  with  thee. 
How  good  to  be  unclothed,  and  sleep  in  peace  ! 

Friend  ! — Friend  ! — I  grieve  to  lose  thee.     Thou  hast  been 
The  sharer  of  my  sympathies,  the  soul 
That  prompted  me  to  good,  the  hand  that  shed 
Dew  on  my  drooping  virtues.     In  all  scenes 
Where  we  have  dwelt  together — walking  on 
In  friendship's  holy  concord,  I  am  now 
But  a  divided  being.     Who  is  left 
To  love,  as  thou  hast  loved  ? 


THE  KNELL.  J  47 

Yet  still  to  share 
A  few  more  welcomes  from  thy  soft  blue  eye, 
A  few  more  pressures  of  thy  snowy  hand, 
And  ruby  lip,  could  I  enchain  thee  here 
To  all  that  change  and  plenitude  of  ill 
Which  we  inherit?     Hence  thou  selfish  grief! 
Thy  root  is  in  the  earth,  and  all  thy  fruits 
Bitter  and  baneful.     Holy  joy  should  spring 
When  pure  hearts  take  their  portion. 

Go  beloved ! 
First,  for  thou  wert  most  worthy. — I  will  strive, 
As  best  such  frail  one  may,  to  follow  thee. 


148 


THE  LIBERATED  CONVICT. 

Dark  prison-dome,  farewell. 

How  slow  the  hours 
Have  told  their  leaden  march  within  thy  walls, 
Toil  claimed  the  day,  and  stern  remorse  the  night, 
And  every  season  with  a  frowning  face 
Approached,  and  went  unreconciled  away. 
Ah !  who  with  virtue's  pure,  unblenching  soul 
Can  tell  how  tardily  old  Time  doth  move, 
When  guilt  and  punishment  have  clogged  his  wings  ! 
The  winter  of  the  soul,  the  frozen  brow 
Of  unpolluted  friends,  the  harrowing  pangs 
Of  the  lost  prayer,  learned  at  the  mother's  knee, 
The  uptorn  hope,  the  violated  vow. 
The  poignant  memory  of  unultered  things. 
Do  dwell,  dark  dome,  with  him,  who  dwells  with  thee. 
And  yet,  thou  place  of  woe,  I  would  not  speak 
Too  harshly  of  thee,  since  in  thy  sad  cell 
Repentance  found  me,  and  did  steep  with  tears 
My  lonely  pillow,  till  the  heart  grew  soft. 
And  spread  itself  in  brokenness  before 
The  Eye  of  Mercy.     Now  my  penal  doom 
Completed,  justice  with  an  angel's  face 
Unbars  her  dreary  gate.     But  when  I  view 
Once  more  my  home,  when  mild,  forgiving  eyes 
Shall  beam  upon  me,  and  the  long-lost  might 
Of  freedom  nerve  my  arm,  may  the  strong  lines 
Of  that  hard  lesson  sin  hath  taught  my  soul, 
Gleam  like  a  flaming  beacon. 


THE  LIBERATED  CONVICT.  149 

God  of  Heaven ! 
Who  not  for  our  infirmities  or  crimes 
Dost  turn  thy  face  away,  gird  thou  my  soul 
And  fortify  its  purpose,  so  to  run 
Its  future  pilgrim-race,  as  not  to  lose 
The  sinner's  ransom  at  the  bar  of  doom. 


N  * 


150 


THE  BELL  OF  ST.  REGIS. 


In  1704,  when  Deerfield  was  taken  by  the  Indians,  a  small  church-bell  was 
carried  away  on  a  sledge  as  far  as  Lake  Champlain  and  buried.  It  was 
afterwards  taken  up  and  conveyed  to  Canada. 

The  red  men  came  in  their  pride  and  wrath, 

Deep  vengeance  fired  their  eye, 
And  the  blood  of  the  white  was  in  their  path. 

And  the  flame  from  his  roof  rose  high. 

Then  down  from  the  burning  church  they  tore 

The  bell  of  tuneful  sound, 
And  on  with  their  captive  train  they  bore 
That  wonderful  thing  toward  their  native  shore, 

The  rude  Canadian  bound. 

But  now  and  then,  with  a  fearful  tone. 

It  struck  on  their  startled  ear — 
And  sad  it  was,  'mid  the  mountains  lone, 
Or  the  ruined  tempest  muttered  moan. 

That  terrible  voice  to  hear. 

It  seemed  like  the  question  that  stirs  the  soul 

Of  its  secret  good  or  ill, 
And  they  quaked  as  its  stern  and  solemn  toll 

Re-echoed  from  rock  to  hill. 

And  they  started  up  in  their  broken  dream, 
'Mid  the  lonely  forest-shade, 


THE  BELL  OF  ST.  REGIS.  15X 

And  thought  that  they  heard  the  dying  scream, 
And  saw  the  blood  of  slaughter  stream 
Afresh  through  the  village  glade. 

Then  they  sat  in  council,  those  chieftains  old. 

And  a  mighty  pit  was  made, 
Where  the  lake  with  its  silver  waters  rolled 
They  buried  that  bell  'neath  the  verdant  mould, 

And  crossed  themselves  and  prayed. 

And  there  till  a  stately  powow  came 

It  slept  in  its  tomb  forgot, 
With  a  mantle  of  fur,  and  a  brow  of  flame 

He  stood  on  that  burial  spot : 

They  wheeled  the  dance  with  its  mystic  round 

At  the  stormy  midnight  hour. 
And  a  dead  man's  hand  on  his  breast  he  bound, 
And  invoked,  ere  he  broke  that  awful  ground, 

The  demons  of  pride  and  power. 

Then  he  raised  the  hell,  with  a  nameless  rite, 

Which  none  but  himself  might  tell. 
In  blanket  and  bear-skin  he  bound  it  tight, 
And  it  journeyed  in  silence  both  day  and  night, 

So  strong  was  that  magic  spell. 

It  spake  no  more,  till  St.  Regis'  tower 

In  northern  skies  appeared. 
And  their  legends  extol  that  powow's  power 
Which  lulled  that  knell  like  the  poppy  flower. 
As  conscience  now  slumbereth  a  little  hour 

lu  the  cell  of  a  heart  that 's  seared. 


152 


THE  ANGEL'S  SONG. 

"  They  heard  a  voice  from  Heaven,  saying,  Come  up  hither." 

Ye  have  a  land  of  mist  and  shade, 

Where  spectres  roam  at  will, 
Dense  clouds  your  mountain  cliffs  pervade. 

And  damps  your  vallies  chill ; 
But  ne'er  has  midnight's  wing  of  woe 

Eclipsed  our  changeless  ray; 
"  Come  hither,'"  if  ye  seek  to  know 

The  bliss  of  perfect  day. 

Doubt,  like  the  bohan-upas  spreads 

A  blight  where'er  ye  tread, 
And  hope,  a  wailing  mourner,  sheds 

The  tear  o'er  harvests  dead  ; 
With  us,  no  traitorous  foe  assails 

When  love  her  home  would  make, 
In  Heaven,  the  welcome  never  fails, 

"  Come,'"  and  that  warmth  partake. 

Time  revels  'mid  your  boasted  joys, 

Death  dims  your  brightest  rose. 
And  sin  your  bower  of  peace  destroys — 

Where  will  ye  find  repose  1 
Ye  're  wearied  in  your  pilgrim-race, 

Sharp  thorns  your  path  infest, 
"  Come  hither,"— rise  to  our  embrace, 

And  Christ  shall  give  you  rest. 


THE  angel's  song.  153 

Twas  thus,  methought,  at  twilight  hour 

The  angel's  lay  came  down, 
Like  dews  upon  the  drooping  flower, 

When  droughts  of  summer  frown; 
How  richly  o'er  the  ambient  air 

Swelled  out  that  music  free, 
Oh ! — when  the  pangs  of  death  I  bear, 

Sing  ye  that  song  to  me. 


154 


THE  MARTYR  OF  SCIO. 


Bright  Summer  breathed  in  Scio.     Gay  she  hung 

Her  coronal  upon  the  olive  boughs, 

Flushed  the  rich  clusters  on  the  ripening  vines, 

And  shook  fresh  fragrance  from  the  citron  groves 

'Till  every  breeze  was  satiate.     But  the  sons 

Of  that  fair  isle  bore  winter  in  their  soul, 

For  'mid  the  temples  of  their  ancestors, 

And  through  the  weeping  mastic  bowers,  their  step 

Was  like  the  man  who  hears  the  oppressor's  voice 

In  Nature's  softest  echo.     The  stern  Turk 

In  sullen  domination  idly  roamed 

Where  mighty  Homer  awed  the  listening  world. 

Once  to  the  proud  Divan,  with  stately  step 
A  youth  drew  near;     Surpassing  beauty  sate 
Upon  his  princely  brow,  and  from  his  eye 
A  glance  like  lightning  parted  as  he  spake. 

"  I  had  a  jewel.     From  my  sires  it  came 
In  long  transmission ;  and  upon  my  soul 
There  was  a  bond  to  keep  it  for  my  sons. 
Tis  gone,  and  in  its  place  a  false  one  shines. 
I  ask  for  justice." 

Brandishing  aloft 
His  naked  scimitar,  the  Cadi  cried 
"  By  Allah  and  his  Prophet !  guilt  like  this 
Shall  feel  the  avenger's  stroke.     Show  me  the  wretch 
Who  robbed  thy  casket." 

Then  the  appellant  tore 
The  turban  from  his  head,  and  cast  it  down  ; 


THE  MARTYR  OF  SCIO.  155 

"Lo!  the  false  jewel,  see.     And  would'st  thou  know 
Whose  fraud  exchanged  it  for  my  precious  gem  l 
Thou  art  the  man.     My  birth-right  was  the  faith 
Of  Jesus  Christ,  which  thou  hast  stolen  away 
With  hollow  words.     Take  back  thy  tinselled  bait, 
And  let  me  sorrowing  seek  my  Saviour's  fold. 
Tempted  I  was,  and  madly  have  I  fallen, 
Oh,  give  me  back  my  faith." 

And  there  he  stood, 
The  stately-born  of  Scio,  in  whose  veins 
Stirred  the  high  blood  of  Greece.     There  was  a  pause, 
A  haughty  lifting  up  of  Turkish  brows, 
In  wonder  and  in  scorn  ;  a  hissing  tone 
Of  wrath  precursive,  and  a  stern  reply — 

"The  faith  of  Moslem,  or  the  sabre  stroke, 
Chose  thee,  young  Greek  !" 

Then  rose  his  lofty  form 
In  all  its  majesty,  and  his  deep  voice 
Rang  out  sonorous  as  a  triumph-song, 
"  Give  back  my  faith  ."' 

A  pale  torch  faintly  gleamed 
Through  niche  and  window  of  a  lonely  church, 
And  thence  the  wailing  of  a  stifled  dirge 
Rose  sad  to  Midnight's  ear.     A  corpse  was  there — 
And  a  young  beauteous  creature,  kneeling  low 
In  voiceless  grief.     Her  wealth  of  raven  locks 
Swept  o'er  the  dead  man's  brow,  as  there  she  laid 
The  withered  bridal  crown,  while  every  hope 
That  at  its  twining  woke,  and  every  joy 
Young  love  in  fond  idolatry  had  nursed. 
Perished  that  hour. 

Feebly  she  raised  her  child, 
And  bade  him  kiss  his  father.     Bat  the  boy 
Shrank  back  in  horror  from  the  clotted  blood. 
And  wildly  clasped  his  hands  with  such  a  cry 
Of  piercing  anguish,  that  each  heart  recoiled 
From  his  impassioned  woe.     But  there  was  one 


]^56  THE  MARTYR  OF  SCIO. 

Unmoved,  one  white-haired,  melancholy  man, 
Who  stood  in  utter  desolation  forth, 
Silent  and  solemn,  like  some  lonely  tower ; 
Yet  in  his  tearless  eye  there  seemed  a  spark 
Of  victor  glory  'mid  despair  to  burn, 
That  Sciote  Martyr  was  his  only  son. 


157 


ALICE. 


A  very  interesting  daughter  of  the  late  Dr.  Cogswell,  who  was  deprived 
of  the  powers  of  hearing  and  speech,  cherished  so  ardent  an  aftection  for  her 
father,  that,  after  his  death,  she  said,  in  her  strong  language  of  gesture,  that 
"  her  heart  had  so  grown  to  his,  it  could  not  be  separated."  By  the  Provi- 
dence of  the  Almighty  she  was  called  in  a  few  days  to  follow  him ;  and 
from  the  abodes  of  bliss,  where  we  trust  she  has  obtained  a  mansion,  may 
we  not  imagine  her  as  thus  addressing  the  objects  of  her  fondest  earthly 
affections  ? 


Sisters  ! — there's  music  here, 

From  countless  harps  it  flows, 
Throughout  this  bright,  celestial  sphere 
Nor  pause,  nor  discord  knows. 
The  seal  is  melted  from  my  ear 

By  love  divine 
And  what  through  life  I  pined  to  hear, 
Is  mine  !  Is  mine  ! 
The  warbling  of  an  ever-tuneful  choir. 
And  the  full,  deep  response  of  David's  sacred  lyre. 
Did  kind  earth  hide  from  me 
Her  broken  harmony, 
That  thus  the  melodies  of  Heaven  might  roll, 
And  whelm  in  deeper  tides  of  bliss,  my  rapt,  my  wondering 
soull 

Joy  ! — I  am  mute  no  more, 
My  sad  and  silent  years, 
With  all  their  loneliness  are  o'er. 
Sweet  sisters  !  dry  your  tears  : 
o 


1  58  ALICE. 

Listen  at  hush  of  eve — listen  at  dawn  of  day — 
List  at  the  hour  of  prayer — can  ye  not  hear  my  lay  P 
Untaught,  unchecked  it  came, 

As  light  from  chaos  beamed, 
Praising  his  everlasting  name, 
Whose  blood  from  Calvary  streamed — 
And  still  it  swells  that  highest  strain,  the  song  of  the  redeemed. 

Brother ! — my  only  one ! 

Beloved  from  childhood's  hours. 
With  whom,  beneath  the  vernal  son, 
I  wandered  when  our  task  was  done. 
And  gathered  early  flowers  ; 
1  cannot  come  to  thee, 
Though  't  was  so  sweet  to  rest 
Upon  thy  gently-guiding  arm — thy  sympathizing  breast: 
'  Tis  better  here  to  be. 
No  disappointments  shroud 
The  angel-bowers  of  joy. 
Our  knowledge  hath  no  cloud. 

Our  pleasures  no  alloy, 
The  fearful  word — to  part, 
Is  never  breathed  above. 
Heaven  hath  no  broken  heart — 
Call  me  not  hence,  my  love. 

Oh,  mother ! — He  is  here 

To  whom  my  soul  so  grew. 
That  when  Death's  fatal  spear 
Stretched  him  uport  his  bier, 
I  fain  must  follow  too. 
His  smile  my  infant  griefs  restrained — 

His  image  in  my  childish  dream 
And  o'er  my  young  affection^  reigned, 
With  gratitude  unuttered  and  supreme. 
But  yet  till  these  refulgent  skies  burst  forth  in  radiant  glow 
I  know  not  half  the  unmeasured  debt  a  daughter's  heart  doth 
owe. 


ALICE.  159 

Ask  ye,  if  still  his  heart  retains  its  ardent  glowl 

Ask  ye,  if  filial  love 

Unbodied  spirits  prove  T 
'Tis  but  a  little  space,  and  thou  shalt  rise  to  know. 

I  bend  to  soothe  thy  woes. 

How  near — thou  canst  not  see — 
I  watch  thy  lone  repose, 

Alice  doth  comfort  thee  ; 
To  welcome  thee  I  wait — blest  mother !  come  to  me. 


X'. 

I 


160 


MY  NATIVE  PLACE. 


Blest  land  !  where  first  without  a  thorn, 
The  germs  of  infant  hope  were  born, 
Where  budding  joys  sprang  fair  and  new 
To  meet  the  sun,  and  drink  the  dew  ; 
Though  scenes  more  wonderful  and  wild. 
Have  since  my  charmed  eye  beguiled, 
Yet  none  have  with  such  graphic  art 
Impressed  their  semblance  on  my  heart, 
And  none  can  boast  thy  magic  power 
To  rule  the  musing,  twilight  hour. 

Come  in  thy  garb  of  rock  and  stream, 
With  wind-swept  harp  and  sunset  gleam. 
And  eye  o'er  dizzy  heights  ascending, 
And  voice  with  falling  waters  blending; 
Come! — for  my  filial  feelings  greet 
Thine  image  with  communion  sweet. 

Nurse  of  mj''  earliest  dreams  !  how  dear 
Still  steals  thy  music  o'er  my  ear. 
From  warbling  nest,  or  summer-shower. 
Or  mountain  streamlet's  murmuring  power. 
Or  liquid  flute,  where  graceful  glides 
Some  fairy  boat,  o'er  moon-lit  tides  ; 
Still  rise  those  tones,  with  tuneful  swell 
From  miser-memory's  treasure-cell. 

Nurse  of  my  youth  !  what  clime  hath  spread 
In  sheltered  nook,  or  vernal  bed, 


MY  NATIVE  PLACE.  161 

Violets  so  fresh,  so  deeply  blue, 

Or  snow-drops  of  such  pearly  hue. 

As  thou  didst  strew,  with  aspect  bland, 

To  roving  eye  and  careless  hand. 

Stern  winter  now  hath  hushed  thy  lay, 

And  mixed  thy  russet  locks  with  grey, 

And  dashed  thy  frost-bound  chalice  down, 

And  reft  the  blossoms  from  thy  crown  ; 

But  breasts  that  glow  with  love  for  thee, 

From  wintry  torpor  still  are  free. 

And  hearts  that  drew  from  thee  their  breath, 

Should  know  no  ice,  save  that  of  death. 
Those  rugged  features,  sternly  fair. 

Those  craggy  summits,  bleak  and  bare, 

But  most  of  all,  yon  sylvan  shades. 

Deep-hidden  dells   and  lone  cascades. 

From  richer  climes,  and  scenes  more  gay, 

Have  won  my  soul's  first  love  away. 
Home  of  my  birth  !  old  Time  hath  not. 

To  mar  and  scathe  thy  brow  forgot, 

Dark  stains  upon  thy  walls  to  fling, 

And  shade  thy  casements  with  his  wing; 

And  pampered  taste,  and  frowning  pride 

Might  well  thy  humble  roof  deride, 

But  childhood's  careless  heart,  its  rest 

Doth  build,  as  light  as  ring-dove's  nest. 

And  to  the  lowly  dwelling  bring 

A  wealth  that  mocks  the  sceptred  king. 

Thee,  too,  embowered  'mid  rocks,  1  spy, 

Meek  dome  where  science  met  our  eye. 

Where  knowledge  spread  her  infant  lore, 

Revealing  joys  unknown  before, 

While  friendship's  charms,  that  ne'er  can  cloy, 

Enhanced  the  student's  silent  joy. 

Return  once  more,  ye  much  loved  throng ! 
Replete  with  beauty,  youth  and  song, 
o  * 


162  My  NATIVE  PLACE. 

Your  greeting  smiles  were  fond  and  fair, 
I  stretch  my  arms — ye  are  not  there  ; 
I  call — ye  answer  not  the  strain, 
Haunt,  bower  and  hearth,  I  search  in  vain, 
Where  are  ye? — distant  echoes  drear. 
And  Death's  dark  caverns  answer — here. 

Thus  like  the  pageant  of  a  dream, 
This  shadowy  span  of  life  doth  seem, 
Thus,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
The  mourner  with  the  mourned  shall  lie. 
Land  of  my  birth  !  a  few  times  more 
Winter  may  scathe  thy  temples  hoar, 
Or  Summer,  with  unsandled  foot, 
Her  sickle  to  thy  harvest  put; 
And  then,  should  kind  remembrance  save 
One  wild-flower  garland  for  my  grave, 
Or  from  Oblivion's  voiceless  shore 
One  solitary  trace  restore, 
Then  let  the  cherished  record  be. 
My  hope  in  heaven,  my  love  to  thee. 


103 


PARTING  OF  A  MOTHER  WITH  HER  CHILD. 


He  Jmev)  her  not,  that  fair  young  boy, 

Though  cradled  on  her  breast, 
He  caught  his  earliest  infant  smile. 

And  nightly  sank  to  rest, 
For  stern  disease  had  changed  the  brow 

Once  to  his  gaze  so  dear. 
And  to  a  whisper  sunk  the  voice 

That  best  he  loved  to  hear. 

So,  stranger-like,  he  wondering  gazed. 

While  wild  emotions  swell. 
As  with  a  deathlike,  cold  embrace. 

She  breathed  a  last  farewell, 
And  of  the  Almighty's  hand  gave  back 

The  idols  of  her  trust. 
And  with  a  joyful  hope  went  down 

To  slumber  in  the  dust. 

Go,  blooming  babe,  and  fondly  seek 

The  path  she  trod  below. 
And,  girt  with  Christian  meekness,  learn 

To  pluck  the  sting  from  woe — 
That  so,  to  that  all-glorious  clime, 

Unmarked  by  pain  or  care. 
Thou,  in  thy  Saviour's  strength  mayest  come 

And  know  thy  mother  there. 


164 


INDIAN  NAMES. 


"How  can  the  red  men  be  forgotten,  while  so  many  of  our  states  and 
territories,  bays,  lakes  and  rivers,  are  indelibly  stamped  by  names  of  their 
giving?" 


Ye  say  they  all  have  passed  away, 

That  noble  race  and  brave, 
That  their  light  canoes  have  vanished 

From  off  the  crested  wave; 
That  'mid  the  forests  where  they  roamed 

There  rino-s  no  hunter  shout, 
But  their  names  is  on  your  waters, 

Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

'Tis  where  Ontario's  billow 
Like  Ocean's  surge  is  curled, 

Where  strono-  Niagara's  thunders  wake 
The  echo  of  the  world. 

Where  red  Missouri  bringeth 
Rich  tribute  from  the  west, 

And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps 
On  green  Virginia's  breast. 

Ye  say  their  cone-like  cabins. 
That  clustered  o'er  the  vale, 

Have  fled  away  like  withered  leaves 
Before  the  autumn  gale. 


INDIAN  NAaMES.  105 

But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills, 

Their  baptism  on  your  shore, 
Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 

Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  w^ears  it, 

Within  her  lordly  crown, 
And  broad  Ohio  bears  it, 

Amid  his  young  renown ; 
Connecticut  hath  wreathed  it 

Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves. 
And  bold  Kentucky  breathed  it  hoarse 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachuset  hides  its  lingeringf  voice 

Within  his  rocky  heart, 
And  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 

Throughout  his  lofty  chart; 
Monadnock  on  his  forehead  hoar 

Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust. 
Your  mountains  build  their  monument. 

Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 

Ye  call  these  red-browed  brethren 

The  insects  of  an  hour, 
Crushed  like  the  noteless  worm  amid 

The  regions  of  their  power  ; 
Ye  drive  them  from  their  father's  lands. 

Ye  break  of  faith  the  seal, 
But  can  ye  from  the  court  of  Heaven 

Exclude  their  last  appeal] 

Ye  see  their  unresisting  tribes, 

With  toilsome  step  and  slow, 
On  through  the  trackless  desert  pass, 

A  caravan  of  woe  ; 


166  INDIAN  NAMES. 

Think  ye  the  Eternal's  ear  is  deaf? 

His  sleepless  vision  dim  1 
Think  ye  the  souPs  blood  may  not  cry 

From  that  far  land  to  him  ? 


167 


THE  CORAL  INSECT. 


Toil  on !  toil  on  !  ye  ephemeral  train, 

Who  build  on  the  tossing  and  treacherous  main ; 

Toil  on,  for  the  wisdom  of  man  ye  mock, 

With  your  sand-based  structures  and  domes  of  rock, 

Your  columns  the  fathomless  fountains  lave. 

And  your  arches  spring  up  through  the  crested  wave ; 

Ye're  a  puny  race,  thus  to  boldly  rear 

A  fabric  so  vast,  in  a  realm  so  drear. 

Ye  bind  the  deep  with  your  secret  zone, 
The  ocean  is  sealed,  and  the  surge  a  stone. 
Fresh  wreaths  from  the  coral  pavement  spring 
Like  the  terraced  pride  of  Assyria's  king. 
The  turf  looks  green  where  the  breakers  rolled. 
O'er  the  whirlpool  ripens  the  rind  of  gold, 
The  sea-snatched  isle  is  the  home  of  men. 
And  mountains  exult  where  the  wave  hath  been. 

But  why  do  ye  plant  'neath  the  billows  dark 
The  wrecking  reef  for  the  gallant  bark  ? 
There  are  snares  enough  on  the  tented  field, 
'Mid  the  blossomed  sweets  that  the  valleys  yield, 
There  are  serpents  to  coil  ere  the  flowers  are  up, 
There's  a  poison-drop  in  man's  purest  cup. 
There  are  foes  that  watch  for  his  cradle-breath. 
And  why  need  ye  sow  the  floods  with  death  1 


168  THE  CORAL  INSECT. 

With  mouldering  bones  the  deeps  are  white, 
From  the  ice-clad  pole  to  the  tropics  bright, 
The  mermaid  hath  twisted  her  fingers  cold, 
"With  the  mesh  of  the  sea-boy's  curls  of  gold, 
And  the  gods  of  ocean  have  frowned  to  see 
The  mariner's  bed  'mid  their  halls  of  glee; 
Hath  earth  no  graves,  that  ye  thus  must  spread 
The  boundless  sea  with  the  thronging  dead  1 

Ye  build  I  ye  build  !  but  ye  enter  not  in  ; 

Like  the  tribes  whom  the  desert  devoured  in  their  sin, 

From  the  land  of  promise,  ye  fade  and  die, 

Ere  its  verdure  gleams  forth  on  your  wearied  eye. 

As  the  cloud-crowned  pyramids'  founders  sleep 

Noteless  and  lost  in  oblivion  deep, 

Ye  slumber  unmarked  'mid  the  desolate  main. 

While  the  wonder  and  pride  of  your  works  remain. 


169 


MARRIAGE  OF  THE  DEAF  AND  DUMB. 


No  word!  no  sound!     But  yet  a  solemn  rite 
Proceedeth  through  the  festive-lighted  hall. 
Hearts  are  in  treaty  and  the  soul  doth  take 
That  oath  which  unabsolved  must  stand,  till  death 
With  icy  seal  doth  stamp  the  scroll  of  life. 
No  word!  no  sound!     But  still  yon  holy  man 
With  strong  and  graceful  gesture  doth  impose 
The  irrevocable  vow,  and  with  meek  prayer 
Present  it  to  be  registered  in  Heaven. 

Methinks  this  silence  heavily  doth  brood 
Upon  the  spirit.     Say,  thou  flower-crowned  bride  ! 
What  means  the  sigh  that  from  thy  ruby  lip 
Doth  scape,  as  if  to  seek  some  element 
Which  angels  breathe? 

Mute  !  mute  !  ^tis  passing  strange  ! 
Like  necromancy  all.     And  yet  'tis  well. 
For  the  deep  trust  with  which  a  maiden  casts 
Her  all  of  earth,  perchance  her  all  of  heaven. 
Into  a  mortal's  hand,  the  confidence 
With  which  she  turns  in  every  thought  to  him, 
Her  more  than  brother,  and  her  next  to  God, 
Hath  never  yet  been  shadowed  out  in  words, 
Or  told  in  language.     So  ye  voiceless  pair, 
Pass  on  in  hope.     For  ye  may  build  as  firm 
Your  silent  altar  in  each  other's  hearts. 
And  catch  the  sunshine  through  the  clouds  of  time 
As  cheerily  as  though  the  pomp  of  speech 
Did  herald  forth  the  deed.     And  when  ye  dwell 
P 


170    MARRIAGE  OF  THE  DEAF  AND  DUMB. 

Where  flower  fades  not,  and  death  no  treasured  link 
Hath  power  to  sever  more,  ye  need  not  mourn 
The  ear  sequestrate  and  the  tuneless  tongue, 
For  there  the  eternal  dialect  of  love 
Is  the  free  breath  of  every  happy  soul. 


171 


MISSION  HYMN. 


Onward,  onward,  men  of  Heaven  ! 

Rear  the  gospel's  banner  high. 
Rest  not  till  its  light  is  given, 

Star  of  every  pagan  sky. 
Bear  it  where  the  pilgrim-stranger 

Faints  'neath  Asia's  vertic  ray. 
Bid  the  red-browed  forest-ranger 

Hail  it,  ere  he  fades  away. 

Where  the  arctic  ocean  thunders, 

Where  the  topics  fiercely  glow. 
Broadly  spread  its  page  of  wonders. 

Brightly  bid  its  radiance  flow. 
India  marks  its  lustre  stealing. 

Shivering  Greenland  loves  its  rays, 
Afric  'mid  the  deserts  kneelino-. 

Lifts  the  untaught  strain  of  praise. 

Rude  in  speech,  or  grim  in  feature. 

Dark  in  spirit,  though  they  be. 
Show  that  light  to  every  creature. 

Prince  or  vassal — bond  or  free. 
Lo  !  they  haste  to  every  nation. 

Host  on  host  the  ranks  supply ; 
Onward  !  Christ  is  your  salvation, 

And  your  death  is  victory. 


172 


THE  POET  BRAINERD. 


I  ROVED  where  Thames  old  Ocean's  breast  doth  cheer, 
Pouring  from  crystal  urn  the  waters  sheen, 
What  time  dim  twilight's  silent  step  was  near. 
And  gathering  dews  impearled  the  margin  green ; 
Yet  though  mild  autumn  with  a  smile  serene 
Had  gently  fostered  Summer's  lingering  bloom, 
Methongh  strange  sadness  brooded  o'er  the  scene, 
While  the  deep  river  murmuring  on  in  gloom 
Mourned  o'er  its  sweetest  bard,  laid  early  in  the  tomb. 

His  soul  for  friendship  formed,  sublime,  sincere, 
Of  each  ungenerous  deed  his  high  disdain. 
Perchance  the  world  might  scan  with  eye  severe ; 
Perchance  his  harp  her  guerdon  failed  to  gain ; 
But  Nature  guards  his  fame,  for  not  in  vain 
He  sang  her  shady  dells,  and  mountains  hoar. 
King  Philip's  swelling  bay  repeats  his  name 
To  its  lone  tower,  and  with  eternal  roar 
Niagara  bears  it  round  to  the  wide-echoing  shore. 

Each  sylvan  haunt  he  loved ;  the  simplest  flower 

That  burns  Heaven's  incense  in  its  bosom  fair, 

The  crested  billow  with  its  fitful  power. 

The  chirping  nest  that  wooed  a  mother's  care, 

All  woke  his  worship  as  some  altar  rare 

Or  sainted  shrine  doth  win  the  pilgrim's  knee; 

And  he  hath  gone  to  rest  where  earth  and  air 


THE  POET  BRAINERD.  173 

Lavish  their  sweetest  charms,  while  pure  and  free 
Sounds  forth  the  wind-swept  harp  of  his  own  native  sea. 

His  country's  brave  defenders,  few  and  gray, 
By  penury  stricken,  with  despairing  sighs 
He  sang,  and  boldly  woke  a  warning  lay, 
Lest  from  their  graves  a  withering  curse  should  rise  ; 
Now  near  his  bed  on  which  the  peaceful  skies 
And  watching  stars  look  down,  on  Groton's  height 
Tfieir  monument  attracts  the  traveller's  eyes 
Whose  souls  unshrinking  took  their  martyr-flio-ht 
When  Arnold's  traitor-sword  flashed  out  in  fiendish  mio-ht. 

Youth,  with  free  hand,  her  frolic  germs  had  sown. 
And  garlands  clustered  round  his  manly  head, 
Those  blossoms  withered,  and  he  stood  alone 
Till  on  his  cheek  the  blushing  hectic  fed. 
And  o'er  his  manly  brows  cold  death-dews  spread  ; 
Then  in  his  soul  a  quenchless  star  arose 
Whose  holy  beams  their  purest  lustre  shed. 
When  the  dimmed  eye  to  its  last  pillow  goes. 
He  followed  where  it  led,  and  found  a  saint's  repose. 

And  now  farew-ell.     The  rippling  stream  shall  hear 
No  more  the  echo  of  thy  sportive  oar. 
Nor  the  loved  group  thy  father's  halls  that  cheer 
Joy  in  the  magic  of  thy  presence  more; 
Long  shall  their  tears  thy  broken  lyre  deplore. 
Yet  doth  thine  image  warm  and  deathless  dwell 
With  those  who  prize  the  minstrel's  hallowed  lore. 
And  still  thy  music,  like  a  treasured  spell. 
Thrills  deep  within  their  sails.     Lamented  bard,  farewell ! 
P* 


174 


THE  TOMB. 


"  So  parted  they :  the  angel  up  to  Heaven, 
And  Adam  to  his  bower." 

Mi/ton. 


This  is  the  parting  place  ■•  this  narrow  house, 

With  its  turf  roof  and  marble  door,  where  none 

Have  entered  and  returned.     If  earth's  poor  gold 

Ere  clave  unto  thee,  here  unlade  thyself; 

For  thou  didst  brino-  none  with  thee  to  this  world, 

Nor  may'st  thou  bear  it  hence.     Honours  hast  thou. 

Ambition's  shadowy  gathering  1  Shred  them  loose 

To  the  four  winds,  their  natural  element. 

Yea,  more,  thou  must  unclasp  the  living  ties 

Of  strono-  affection.     Hast  thou  nurtured  babes  ? 

And  was  each  wailing  from  their  feeble  lip 

A  thorn  to  pierce  thee?  every  inftint  smile 

And  budding  hope  a  spring  of  ecstacy  1 

Turn,  turn  away,  for  thou  henceforth  to  them 

A  parent  art  no  more  1     Wert  thou  a  wife  1 

And  was  the  arm  on  which  thy  spirit  leaned 

Faithful  in  all  thy  need  ]     Yet  must  thou  leave 

This  fond  protection,  and  pursue  alone 

Thy  shuddering  pathway  down  the  vale  of  death. 

Friendship's  free  intercourse — the  promised  joys 

Of  soul-implant,ed,  soul-confiding  love, 

The  cherished  syvpopathies  which  every  year 

Struck  some  new  ioot  within  thy  yielding  breast, 


THE  TOMB.  175 

Stand  loose  from  all,  thou  lonely  voyager 
Unto  the  land  of  spirits. 

Yea,  even  more ! 
Lay  down  thy  body  !     Hast  thou  worshipped  it 
With  vanity's  sweet  incense,  and  wild  waste 
Of  precious  time  1     Did  beauty  bring  it  gifts, 
The  lily  brow,  the  full  resplendent  eye ; 
The  tress,  the  bloom,  the  grace,  whose  magic  power 
Woke  man's  idolatry  1     Oh  !  lay  it  down. 
Earth's  reptile  banqueters  have  need  of  it. 

Still  may'st  thou  bear  o'er  Jordan's  stormy  wave. 
One  blessed  trophy;  if  thy  life  hath  striven 
By  penitence  and  faith  such  boon  to  gain. 
The  victor  palm  of  Christ's  atoning  love  : 
And  this  shall  win  thee  entrance  when  thou  stand'st 
^  pilgrim  at  Heaven's  gate. 


176 


"THOU  HAST  MADE  DESOLATE  ALL  MY 
COMPANY." 


Job. 


There  shone  a  beam  within  my  bower, 

Affection's  diamond  spark, 
The  spoiler  came  with  fatal  power — 

That  beam  is  quenched  and  dark. 
There  was  a  shout  of  childhood's  joy, 

A  laugh  of  infant  glee,  .  j 

The  earth  closed  o'er  my  glorious  boy,  j 

My  nursling-!— fF/icre  is  he?  | 

1 

There  seemed  a  sound  like  rushing  wings. 

So  thick  my  sorrows  came, 
A  blight  destroyed  my  precious  things, 

My  treasures  fed  the  flame  ; 
An  ocean  of  unfathomed  woe 

Swept  on  with  all  its  waves, 
And  here  all  desolate  I  stand, 

Mone  amid  my  graves. 

Mone  .'  there  flows  no  kindred  tear, 

No  sympathizing  sigh. 
The  feet  of  curious  throngs  are  near, 

But  every  cheek  is  dry. 
And  is  there  nought  but  curtaining  turf, 

And  cold  earth  loosely  thrown. 


THOU  HAST  MADE  DESOLATE.  177 

To  sliut  me  from  those  cherished  forms, 
My  beautiful,  my  own  1 

Yet  who  this  fearful  deed  hath  wrought] 

Who  thus  hath  laid  me  low  1 
Was  it  a  hand  with  vengeance  fraught  ■? 

The  malice  of  a  foe  1 
No  ! — He  who  called  my  being  forth 

From  mute,  unconscious  clay  ; 
He  who  with  more  than  patent's  love 

Hath  led  me  night  and  day; 

Who  erreth  not,  who  changeth  not, 

Who  woundeth  but  to  heal, 
Who  darkeneth  not  man's  sunny  lot 

Save  for  his  spirit's  weal : 
Therefore  I  bow  me  to  his  sway, 

I  mourn,  but  not  repine. 
And  chastened,  yet  confiding  say, 

Lord — not  my  loill,  but  thine. 


178 


THE  EXECUTION. 


There's  silence 'mid  yon  gathered  throng — why  move  they  on 

so  slow  ] 
With  neither  sign  nor  sound  of  mirth,  to  break  their  pause 

of  woe  ] 
And  why  upon  yon  guarded  man  is  bent  each  gazing  eyel 
Where  do  his  measured  footsteps  tend  1 — He  cometh  forth  to 

die  ! 

To  die  !  No  sickness  bows  his  frame,  or  checks  the  flowing 

breath, 
Say,  why  doth  Justice  sternly  rise  to  do  the  work  of  death  \ 
Still  boasts  his  brow  a  bitter  frown,  his  eye  a  moody  fire. 
Oh  Guilt !  unbind  thy  massive  chains,  and  let  the  soul  respire. 

He  standeth  on  the  scaffold's  verge,  the  holy  priest  is  near, 
Yet  no  contrition  heaves  his  breast,  or  wrings  the  parting  tear ; 
O  !  wilt  thou  bear  with  cold  disdain  the  pangs  of  mortal 

strife, 
And  thus  in  mad  defiance  drain  the  forfeit  cup  of  life  ? 

Look  round  upon  thy  native  earth,  the  glorious  and  the  fair, 
Cliff,  thicket  and  resounding  stream,  thy  boyhood  sported 

there ; 
Think  oflfthy  sire,  that  aged  man,  with  white  locks  scattered 

thin, 
And  call  these  blest  affections  back,  that  melt  the  ice  of  sin. 


THE  EXECUTION.  179 

Bethink  tliee  of  thy  cradle-hours,  and  of  a  mother's  prayer, 
Who  nightly  laid  her  cheek  to  thine,  with  guardian  angel's 
care, 

And,  for  her  sake,  propitiate  Him  who  shields  the  sinner's 

head. 
And  take  repentance  to  thy  breast,  ere  thou  art  of  the  dead. 

There's  yet  a  moment.     To  his  ear  reveal  thy  hidden  pain, 
Give  passage  to  one  suppliant  sigh— one  prayer — in  vain,  in 


vam. 


Look,  look  to  Him,  whose  mercy  heard  the  dying  felon's 

sigh. 
Say,  "  Jesus  save  me  /"  who  can  tell  but  he  will  heed  thy  cry. 

A  shuddering  horror  shakes  the  crowd,  young  eyes  are  veiled 

in  dread. 
Affrighted  childhood  wails  aloud,  and  veterans  bow  the  head. 
For  guilt  unhumbled,  unannealed,  hath  felt  the  avenger's  rod, 
And  sped,  with  falsehood's  sullen  front,  to  dare  the  glance  of 

God. 


■J^ 


180 


MORNING. 


Ood  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town." 

Cowper, 


Morn  breaketh  on  the  mountains.     Their  grey  peaks 
Catch  its  first  tint,  and  through  the  moss  that  veils 
Their  rugged  foreheads,  smile,  as  when  the  stars 
Together  sang,  at  young  creation's  birth. 
Fresh  gales  awake,  and  the  tall  pines  bow  down 
To  their  soft  visit ;  and  the  umbrao-eous  oaks 
Spread  their  broad  banners,  while  each  leaf  doth  lift 
Itself,  as  for  a  blessing.     Through  the  boughs 
Of  the  cool  poplars,  steals  a  sighing  sound, 
The  leaping  rills  make  music,  and  the  groves 
Pour  from  their  cloistered  nests  a  warbling  hymn. 
From  all  her  deep  recesses.  Nature's  voice. 
Like  the  clear  horn  amid  the  Alpine  hills, 
Is  praise  to  God,  at  this  blest  hour  of  morn. 
Morn  Cometh  to  the  cottage.     Through  its  door 
Peep  ruddy  faces.     Infant  mirth  awakes. 
The  fair  young  milk-maid  o'er  the  threshold  trips, 
The  shepherd's  dog  goes  forth,  the  lamb  sports  gay, 
And  the  swain  dips  his  glittering  scythe  in  dews, 
Which  like  bright  tears  the  new-shorn  grass  doth  shed  : 
Joy  breathes  around,  while  Health,  with  glowing  lip 
And  cheek  embrowned,  and  Industry,  with  song 
Of  jocund  chorus,  hail  the  King  of  Day. 
Morn  looketh  on  the  city.     See  how  slow 


MORNING.  I!^l 

Its  ponderous  limbs  unfold.     On  arid  sands 

Thus  the  gorged  boa,  from  some  deep  repast 

Uncoils  his  length.     Heaven  smileth  on  those  spires; 

But  their  loud  bells,  and  organ-pipes,  and  hymns 

Of  high  response,  are  silent.     Flame  hath  fallen 

Wherewith  to  kindle  incense,  but  man  locks 

His  bosom's  altar,  and  doth  sell  for  sleep 

What  Esau  sold  for  pottage.     Stately  domes, 

And  marble  columns  greet  the  rising  sun. 

Yet  not  like  Memnon's  statute  utter  forth 

A  gratulating  tone.     Aurora  glides. 

Gaily  pavilioned,  on  a  purple  cloud. 

Sworn  worshippers  of  beauty,  where  are  ye"? 

Why  Egypt's  queen  came  not  so  daintily, 

When,  on  the  Cydnus,  her  resplendent  barge 

Left  golden  traces.     Eut  your  eyes,  perchance. 

Are  dim  with  splendours  of  some  midnight  hall, 

And  curtained  close,  forego  this  glorious  sight. 

Hark,  life  doth  stir  itself!    The  dray-horse  strikes 
His  clattering  hoof,  and  eyes  with  quivering  limb 
The  tyrant-lash.     And  there  are  wakeful  eyes 
That  watched  for  dawn,  where  sickness  holds  its  sway, 
Marking  with  groans  the  dial-face  of  time. 
Half-famished  penury  from  its  vigil  creeps. 
The  money-getter  to  his  labour  goes, 
Gaunt  avarice  prowls — but  where  is  wealth  and  power, 
The  much-indebted,  and  the  high-endowed  1 
Count  they  heaven's  gifts  so  carelessly,  that  morn 
With  kindred  blush  no  gratitude  doth  claim  1 
Lo!  from  their  plenitude,  disease  hath  sprung. 
The  dire  disease  that  ossifies  the  heart. 
And  luxury  enchains  them,  when  the  soul 
With  her  fresh,  waking  pulse,  should  worship  God. 
Q 


182 


BAPTISM  OF  AN  INFANT,  AT  ITS  MOTHER'S 
FUNERAL. 


Whence  is  that  trembling  of  a  father's  hand, 
Who  to  the  man  of  God  doth  bring  his  babe, 
Asking  the  seal  of  Christ] — Why  doth  the  voice 
That  uttereth  o'er  its  brow  the  Triune  Name 
Falter  with  sympathy  "? — And  most  of  all, 
Why  is  yon  coffin-lid  a  pedestal 
For  the  baptismal  font  1 

Asrain  I  asked. 
But  all  the  answer  was  those  gushing  tears 
Which  stricken  hearts  do  weep. 

For  there  she  lay — 
The  fair,  young  mother,  in  that  coffin-bed. 
Mourned  by  the  funeral  train.    The  heart  that  beat 
With  trembling  tenderness,  at  every  touch 
Of  love  or  pity,  flushed  the  cheek  no  more. 

Tears  were  thy  baptism,  thou  unconscious  one, 

And  Sorrow  took  thee  at  the  gate  of  life, 
Into  her  cradle.    Thou  may'st  never  know 
The  welcome  of  a  nursing  mother's  kiss. 
When  in  her  wandering  ecstacy,  she  marks 
A  thrilling  growth  of  new  affections  spread 
Fresh  greenness  o'er  the  soul. 

Thou  may'st  not  share 
Her  hallowed  teaching,  nor  suffuse  her  eye 
With  joy,  as  the  first  germs  of  infant  thought 
Unfold,  in  lisping  sound. 


BAPTISM  OF  AN  INFANT.  183 

Yet  may'st  thou  walk 
Even  as  she  walked,  breathintr  on  all  around 
The  warmth  of  high  affections,  purified, 
And  sublimated,  by  that  Spirit's  power 
Which  makes  the  soul  fit  temple  for  its  God. 

So  shalt  thou  in  a  brighter  world,  behold 

That  countenance  which  the  cold  grave  did  veil 
Thus  early  from  thy  sight,  and  the  first  tone 
That  bears  a  mother's  greeting  to  thine  ear 
Be  wafted  from  the  minstrelsy  of  Heaven. 


184 


THE  LONELY  CHURCH. 


It  stood  among  the  chestnuts,  its  white  spire 
And  slender  turrets  pointing  where  man's  heart 
Should  oftener  turn.     Up  went  the  wooded  cliffs 
Abruptly  beautiful,  above  its  head. 
Shutting  with  verdant  screen  the  waters  out, 
That  just  beyond  in  deep  sequestered  vale 
Wrought  out  their  rocky  passage.     Clustering  roofs 
And  varying  sounds  of  village  industry, 
Swelled  from  its  margin,  while  the  busy  loom, 
Replete  with  radiant  fabrics,  told  the  skill 
Of  the  prompt  artizan. 

But  all  around 
The  solitary  dell,  where  meekly  rose 
That  concecrated  church,  there  was  no  voice 
Save  what  still  Nature  in  her  worship  breathes, 
And  that  unspoken  lore  with  which  the  dead 
Do  commune  with  the  living.     There  they  lay. 
Each  in  his  grassy  tenement,  the  sire 
Of  many  winters,  and  the  noteless  babe 
O'er  whose  empty  cradle,  night  by  night, 
Sate  the  poor  mother  mourning,  in  her  tears 
Forgetting  what  a  little  span  of  time 
Did  hold  her  from  her  darling.     And  methought, 
How  sweet  it  were,  so  near  the  sacred  house 
Where  we  had  heard  of  Christ,  and  taken  his  yoke. 
And  Sabbath  after  Sabbath  gathered  strength 
To  do  his  will,  thus  to  lie  down  and  rest, 
Close  'neath  the  shadow  of  its  peaceful  walls; 


THE   LONELY  CHUllCH.  185 

And  when  the  hand  doth  moulder,  to  lift  up 

Our  simple  tomb-stone  witness  to  that  faith 

Which  cannot  die.     Heaven  bless  thee,  Lonely  Church  ! 

And  duly  may'st  thou  warn  a  pilgrim-band, 

From  toil,  from  cumbrance,  and  from  strife  to  flee, 

And  drink  the  waters  of  eternal  life : 

Still  in  sweet  fellowship  with  trees  and  skies. 

Friend  both  of  earth  and  heaven,  devoutly  stand 

To  guide  the  living  and  to  guard  the  dead. 


Q    * 


186 


INTELLECTUAL  WANTS  OP  GREECE. 


TO  AMERICAN  FEMALES. 

Greece  was  an  hungered,  and  ye  gave  her  bread, 
Unclad  and  shuddering  from  the  inclement  blast, 

And  ye,  in  love,  a  sheltering  mantle  spread  ; 
For  this  a  voice  of  gratitude  hath  past 

O'er  the  broad  ocean-wave,  and  thousands  bear 

Your  name  upon  their  lips,  in  the  hushed  hour  of  prayer. 

There  is  a  cry  for  knowledge,  from  that  clime 
Which  held  her  lamp  to  earth's  benighted  eye, 

In  the  dim  ages  of  remembered  time  : 
Rise !  shed  the  beams  of  immortality 

On  the  mind'' s  prison-huuse  ■•  so  shall  your  fame 

Endure,  when  this  world's  pomp  hath  fed  Destruction's  flame. 

I  saw  your  infants  for  the  needle's  care 

Renounce  their  promised  holiday-delight: 
Saw  even  your  servants  with  a  joyous  air 

Give  for  the  "  classic  land"  their  hard  earned  mite; 
Mothers!  ye  gazed  with  rapture-kindled  brow. 
Ye  prompted  that  blest  work,  why  do  ye  linger  now? 

Sisters!  on  whom  the  manna-shower  is  strewed, 

Who  at  eternal  fountains  drink  your  fill, 
Should  a  redundance  of  your  angel  food 

Turn  from  the  starving  mind  Compassion's  thrill  ? 
Hear  ye  the  gasping  of  the  famished  soul  ? 
Haste  !  reach  the  bread  of  Heaven  ;  say  to  the  sick — be  whole. 


187 


PAUL  AT  ATHENS. 


Come  to  the  hill  of  Mars,  for  he  is  there, 

That  wondrous  man,  whose  eloquence  doth  touch 

The  heart  like  living  flame.     With  brow  unblanched, 

And  eye  of  fearless  ardour  he  confronts 

That  high  tribunal  with  its  pen  of  flint. 

Whose  irreversible  decree  made  pale 

The  Gentile  world.     All  Athens  gathers  near, 

Fickle,  and  warm  of  heart,  and  fond  of  change, 

And  full  of  strangers,  and  of  those  who  pass 

Life  in  the  idle  toil  to  hear  or  tell 

Of  some  new  thing.     See,  thither  throng  the  bands 

Of  Epicurus,  wrapt  in  gorgeous  robe. 

Who  seem  with  bright  and  eager  eyes  to  ask — 

"  What  will  this  babbler  sayl"     With  front  austere 

Stand  a  dark  group  of  Stoics,  sternly  proud, 

And  pre-determined  to  confute,  yet  still 

'Neath  their  deep  wrinkles  of  the  settled  brow 

Lurks  some  unwonted  gathering  of  their  powers. 

As  for  no  common  foe.     With  angry  frown 

Stalk  the  fierce  Cynics,  anxious  to  condemn. 

And  prompt  to  punish,  while  the  patient  sons 

Of  gentle  Plato  bind  the  listening  soul 

To  search  for  wisdom,  and  with  reason's  art 

Build  the  fair  argument.     Behold  the  throngs 

Press  on  the  speaker,  drawing  still  more  close 

In  denser  circles,  as  his  thilling  tones 


1  88  PAUL  AT  ATHENS. 

Speak  of  the  God  who  "  warneth  every  where 

Men  to  repent,"  and  of  that  fearful  day 

When  he  shall  judge  the  world.     Loud  tumult  wakes, 

The  tide  of  strong  emotion  hoarsely  swells, 

And  that  blest  voice  is  silent.     They  have  mocked 

At  heaven's  high  messenger,  and  he  departs 

From  the  wild  circle.     But  his  graceful  hand 

Points  to  an  altar,  with  its  mystic  scroll — 

"  The  unknown  God.''^ — Oh  Athens  !  is  it  so  1 

Thou  who  hast  crowned  thyself  with  woven  rays 

As  a  divinity,  and  called  the  world 

Thy  pilgrim-worshipper,  dost  thou  confess 

Such  ignorance  and  shame  1     71ie  unknown  God. 

Why  all  thy  hillocks  and  resounding  streams 

Do  boast  their  diety,  and  every  house, 

Yea,  every  beating  heart  within  thy  walls 

May  choose  its  temple  and  its  priestly  train, 

Victim  and  garland,  and  appointed  rite ; 

Thou  makest  the  gods  of  every  realm  thine  own, 

Fostering  with  maddened  hospitality 

All  forms  of  idol  worship.     Can  it  be 

That  still  thou  foundst  not  Him  who  is  so  near 

To  every  one  of  us,  in  "  whom  we  live, 

And  move,  and  have  a  being"?"     Found  not  Him 

Of  whom  thy  poets  spake  with  childlike  awe  ] 

And  thou.  Philosophy,  whose  art  refined 
Did  aim  to  pierce  the  labyrinth  of  Fate, 
And  compass  with  a  finespun  sophist  web 
This  mighty  universe — didst  thou  fall  short 
Of  the  Upholding  Cause  ?     The  Unknown  God. 
Thou,  who  didst  smile  to  find  the  admiring  world 
Crouch  as  a  pupil  to  thee,  wert  thou  blind "? 
Blinder  than  he,  who  in  his  humble  cot. 
With  hardened  hand,  his  daily  labour  done, 
Turneth  the  page  of  Jesus,  and  doth  read. 
With  toil,  perchance,  that  the  trim  schoolboy  scorns, 


PAUL  AT  ATHENS.  189 

Counting  him,  in  his  arrogance,  a  fool, 
Yet  shall  that  poor,  wayfaring  man  lie  down 
With  such  a  hope  as  thou  couldst  never  teach 
Thy  king-like  sages — yea,  a  hope  that  plucks 
The  sting  from  death,  the  victory  from  the  grave. 


190 


THE  DISOBEDIENT  SON. 


"  Tempt  not  the  sea," — my  father  said, 

His  locks  were  white  with  age, 
And  low  he  bowed  his  reverend  head 

Upon  the  Bible's  page. 
"  Tempt  not  the  sea,  my  William  dear," 

I  heard  my  mother  sigh. 
Saw  on  her  furrowed  cheek  the  tear, 

But  rendered  no  reply. 

That  night, — it  was  the  last,  last  time  ! 

From  my  sweet  home  I  fled. 
The  sabbath-bell  with  evening  chime 

Reproached  my  rebel  tread. 
One  eye  there  was  I  shunned  to  meet, 

I  could  not  bid  farewell. 
And  yet  its  tender  glance  was  sweet, 

How  sweet,  I  dared  not  tell. 

For  ah  !  the  sea,  the  sea  had  bound 

My  heart  in  wizard  chain, 
My  boyhood  knew  no  tuneful  sound 

Like  the  storm-stricken  main. 
And  when  bright  fancies  o'er  my  soul 

In  dreams  their  sway  would  urge. 
How  proud  the  sapphire  waves  would  roll 

Their  white  and  crested  surge. 


THE  DISOBEDIENT  SON.  191 

And  now  that  broad,  deep  sea,  I  crossed, 

A  truant  sailor-boy. 
And  when  its  wildest  billows  tossed, 

I  laughed  and  leaped  for  joy. 
Once  when  the  midnight  storm  was  loud. 

Half  deafened  by  the  sound. 
Reckless  1  climbed  the  slippery  shroud, 

And  sank  in  gulfs  profound. 

On  went  the  ship.     With  shouts  of* woe 

My  gasping  lips  were  dried, 
High  rolled  the  waves  with  crests  of  snow, 

And  all  my  hope  defied. 
Methought  even  Earth's  foundations  rocked 

With  warring  ocean's  strife, 
While  scornful  winds  like  demons  mocked 

My  breathless  toil  for  life. 

So,  there  upon  the  broad  expanse. 

Like  a  vile  weed  I  clung. 
While  jeering  breakers  held  their  dance. 

And  the  mad  tempest  sung. 
Up  came  the  dawn.     With  pain  I  raved, 

Then  like  a  child  would  weep. 
Methought  it  walked  like  Christ,  who  saved 

The  faithless  on  the  deep. 

Up  rose  the  clear  and  glorious  sun. 

Dark  sea-birds  clapped  their  wing. 
And  hovered  o'er  me  one  by  one, 

As  o'er  a  perished  thing. 
A  ship  I     A  ship  ! — her  gallant  crew 

With  pride  the  waves  did  stem, 
My  shrieks  of  anguish  wilder  grew, 

What  were  those  skrieks  to  them  ? 


192  THE  DISOBEDIENT  SON. 

Wrecks  passed  me  by.     I  floated  still 

A  cold  and  helpless  form, 
Impelled  by  Ocean's  tyrant  will, 

An  atom  'mid  the  storm. 
Strange  visions  racked  my  reeling  brain, 

Unearthly  forms  did  rise, 
And  upward  through  the  glassy  main 

I  met  my  true-love's  eyes. 

Torn  hair,  methought,  like  rays  of  light. 

Fell  round  me  on  the  flood, 
I  knew  my  father's  locks  so  white — 

Who  tinged  those  locks  with  blood  ? 
A  cottage  with  its  peaceful  thatch 

And  tapered  casement  glowed. 
My  shuddering  hand  essayed  the  latch, 

But  burning  lava  flowed. 

Close  to  my  ear  a  monster  sung. 

Green  from  the  creeping  slime,  i 

And  with  his  red,  protruded  tongue  | 

Hissed  at  me  for  mv  crime.  I 

?! 
"  Is  there  no  grave  of  rest,"  I  cried,  f| 

"Down  in  the  dark,  deep  sea?"  J 

His  hideous  jaws  he  opened  wide —  't| 

"  Where  is  the  rest  for  thee .?"  ■} 

i 

But  lo !  there  came  a  spectre-boat, 

I  hailed  not — made  no  sign. 
Yet  o'er  the  wave  I  ceased  to  float, 

Nor  felt  the  whelming  brine. 
I  waked — how  long  had  been  my  sleep  !  J 

How  dreamless  my  repose ! 
Strange  faces  seemed  the  watch  to  keep. 

They  were  my  country's  foes. 


THE  DISOBEDIENT  SON.  193 

In  foreign  climes  the  yoke  I  bore, 

Stern  Slavery's  lot  I  knew, 
Heaven  heard  :  and  toward  my  native  shore, 

My  parents'  home,  I  drew. 
"Where  was  my  hoary  sire  1     They  told 

How  soon  his  race  was  run. 
And  how  he  sought  his  pillow  cold, 

Lamenting  for  his  son. 

Shuddering  I  turned  me  toward  the  cot, 

Which  in  my  crime  I  left, 
There  was  my  widowed  mother's  lot 

Of  sight  and  joy  bereft. 
But  who  was  bending  o'er  her  bed, 

With  voice  like  pity's  dove  1 
Those  were  the  eyes  whose  glance  I  fled — 

That  was  my  own  true  love. 

The  thraldom  of  my  sin  was  broke, 

I  knelt  me  by  her  side. 
The  priest  the  hallowed  words  hath  spoke. 

And  blest  her  as  my  bride. 
My  step,  my  blinded  mother  hails, 

I  toil  with  spirit  free. 
And  only  in  my  fireside  tales 

Recal  the  treacherous  sea. 


R 


194 


"BLESSED  ARE  THE  DEAD." 


Come,  gather  to  this  burial-place,  ye  gay  ! 

Ye,  of  the  sparkling  eye,  and  frolic  brow, 

I  bid  ye  hither.     She,  who  makes  her  bed 

This  day,  'neath  yon  damp  turf,  with  spring-flowers  sown, 

Was  one  of  you.     Time  had  not  laid  his  hand 

On  tress  or  feature,  stamping  the  dread  lines 

Of  chill  decay,  till  Death  had  nought  to  do. 

Save  that  slight  office  which  the  passing  gale 

Doth  to  the  wasted  taper.     No,  her  cheek 

Shamed  the  young  rose-bud  ;  in  her  05^0  was  light 

By  gladness  kindled  ;  in  her  footsteps  grace ; 

Song  on  her  lips  ;  affections  in  her  breast. 

Like  soft  doves  nesting.     Yet,  from  all  she  turned, 

All  she  forsook,  unclasping  her  warm  hand 

From  Friendship's  ardent  pressure,  with  such  smile 

As  if  she  were  the  gainer.     To  lie  down 

In  this  dark  pit  she  cometh,  dust  to  dust, 

Ashes  to  ashes,  till  the  glorious  morn 

Of  resurrection.     Wondering  do  you  ask — 

Where  is  her  blessedness  !     Go  home,  ye  ffay. 

Go  to  your  secret  chambers,  and  kneel  down. 

And  ask  of  God.     Urge  your  request  like  him 

Who  on  the  slight  raft,  'mid  the  ocean's  foam, 

Toileth  for  life.     And  when  ye  win  a  hope 

That  the  world  gives  not,  and  a  faith  divine. 

Ye  will  no  longer  marvel  how  the  friend 

So  beautiful,  so  loved,  so  lured  by  all 

The  pageantry  on  earth,  could  meekly  find 

A  blessedness  in  death. 


195 


FIRST  GIFT  TO  THE  INDIANS  AT  ALBANY. 


"  Albany  was  first  visited  by  its  discoverer,  Capt.  Hudson,  on  the  19th  of 
September,  1C09.  The  frank  and  generous  natives  made  his  people  every- 
where welcome,  and  they,  in  return,  made  their  hearts  gay  with  wine  and 
aqua  vits,  till  one  of  them  became  intoxicated,  and  greatly  astonished  the 

others." 

Watson's  Historic  Tales  of  the  Olden  Time. 


They  come  !  they  come  !  the  pallid  race, 
The  red  men  gather  from  the  chase, 
From  forest-shade  and  light  canoe 
They  throng  that  "  water-bird  to  view, 
Whose  mighty  wings  that  near  the  shore, 
They  deem  their  Great  Manitto  bore. 

Frank  is  their  welcome  to  the  band, 
The  ready  smile,  the  open  hand. 
The  proffered  fruits,  with  gladness  prest, 
The  purple  plum  in  downy  vest. 
The  clustering  grape,  the  corn-sheafs  gold, 
The  untaught  greeting,  warm  and  bold. 

But  by  what  gift,  what  token  strong. 
Did  Europe's  sons,  renowned  in  song, 
Mark  their  first  visit  to  the  child 
Of  simple  faith  and  daring  wild  1 
A  cup  !  a  cup  !  but  who  may  tell, 
What  deadly  dregs  within  it  swell  1 
The  sickening  eye,  the  burning  cheek, 
Its  fearful  magic  strangely  speak, 
And  on  their  turf  of  verdant  die. 
See  !  they  who  taste  it  helpless  lie. 


196    FIRST  GIFT  TO  THE  INDIANS  AT  ALBANY. 

Type  of  the  woes  that  soon  must  sweep 

Their  blasted  race  away, 
Down  to  oblivion  dark  and  deep, 
With  none  their  hopeless  wrongs  to  weep. 

Or  mourn  their  sad  decay. 
Yes,  when  the  Old  World  hasting  prest 
Her  friendship  on  this  infant  West, 
The  boon  she  brought,  the  pledge  she  gave, 
Was  poison  and  a  drunkard's  grave. 

But  thou,  fair  city,  throned  in  pride, 
Queen  of  the  Hudson's  silver  tide. 
Well  hast  thou,  by  thy  deeds,  effaced 
This  stain  upon  thine  annal  traced — 
Well  hast  thou  by  thy  zeal  to  aid 
Temperance,  thine  early  trespass  paid  : 
And  as  the  kneeling  form  that  prest 
A  Saviour's  tear-laved  feet,  was  blest, 
So  hast  thou  shown,  with  victor-sway. 
That  love  which  washes  sin  away. 


197 


MEETING    OF   THE    BLIND    WITH    THE    DEAF, 
DUMB  AND  BLIND. 


On  the  meeting  of  the  blind  pupils  from  the  Institution  at  Boston,  with 
the  deaf  and  dumb,  and  tlic  deaf,  dumb  and  Hind,  at  the  Asy him  in  Hartford. 

A  MINGLED  group,  from  distant  homes, 

In  youth  and  health  and  hope  are  here, 
But  yet  some  latent  evil  seems 

To  mark  their  lot  with  frown  severe, 
And  one  there  is,  upon  whose  soul 

Affliction's  thrice-wreathed  chain  is  laid, 
Mute  stranger,  'mid  a  world  of  sound, 

And  locked  in  midnight's  deepest  shade. 

And  'mid  that  group  her  curious  hand 

O'er  brow  and  tress  intently  stray. 
Hath  sympathy  her  heart-strings  wrung, 

That  sadly  thus  she  turns  away  1 
Her  mystic  thoughts  we  may  not  tell. 

For  inaccessible  and  lone, 
No  eye  explores  their  hermit-cell. 

Save  that  which  lights  the  Eternal  Throne 

But  they  of  silent  lip  rejoiced 

In  brio-ht  Creation's  boundless  store. 
In  sun  and  moon  and  peopled  shade, 

And  flowers  that  gem  earth's  verdant  floor ; 
In  fond  affection's  speaking  smile, 

In  graceful  motions  waving  line, 
R* 


198  MEETING  OF  THE  BLIND,  &C. 

And  all  those  charms  that  beauty  sheds 
O'er  human  form  and  face  divine. 

While  they,  to  whom  the  orb  of  day 

Is  quenched  in  "  ever-during  dark," 
Adored  that  intellectual  ray 

Which  writes  the  Sun  a  glow-worm  spark, 
And  in  that  blest  communion  joyed 

Which  thought  to  thought  doth  deftly  bind, 
And  bid  the  tireless  tongue  exchange 

The  never-wasted  wealth  of  mind. 

And  closer  to  their  souls  they  bound 

The  bliss  of  Music's  raptured  thrill. 
That  "  linked  melody"  of  sound 

That  gives  to  man  a  seraph's  skill, 
So  they  on  whose  young  brows  had  turned. 

The  warmth  of  Pity's  tearful  gaze, 
Each  in  his  broken  censer  burned 

The  incense  of  exulting  praise. 

Yes,  they  whom  kind  Compassion  deemed 

Scantly  with  Nature's  gifts  endued, 
Poured  freshest  from  their  bosom's  fount 

Tlie  gushing  tide  of  gratitude. 
And  with  that  tide  a  moral  flowed, 

A  deep  reproof  to  those  who  share 
Of  sight,  and  sound,  and  speech  the  bliss. 

Yet  coldly  thank  the  Giver's  care. 


199 


THE  CONSUMPTIVE  GIRL. 


FROM  A  PICTURE. 


Thou  may'st  not  raise  her  from  that  couch,  kind  nurse, 

To  bind  those  clustering  tresses,  or  to  press 

The  accustomed  cordial.     Thou  no  more  shalt  feel 

Her  slight  arms  twining  faintly  round  thy  neck 

To  prop  her  weakness.     That  low,  whispered  tone 

No  more  can  thank  thee,  but  the  earnest  eye 

Speaks  with  its  tender  glance  of  all  thy  care. 

By  night  and  day.     Henceforth  thy  mournful  task 

Is  brief:  to  wipe  the  cold  and  starting  dew 

From  that  pure  brow,  to  touch  the  parching  lip 

With  the  cool  water-drop — and  guide  the  breeze 

That  fragrant  though  her  tlowers  comes  travelling  on, 

J'reshly  to  lift  the  poor  heart's  broken  valve. 

Which  gasping  waits  its  doom. 

Mother !  thy  lot 
Hath  been  a  holy  one ;  upon  thy  breast 
To  cherish  that  fair  bud,  to  share  its  bloom, 
Refresh  its  languor  with  the  rain  of  Heaven, 
And  give  it  back  to  God.     The  hour  is  come. 
Thy  sleepless  night-watch  o'er  her  infancy 
Bore  its  own  payment.     Thou  hast  never  known 
For  her,  thy  child,  burden,  or  toil,  or  pang. 
But  what  the  full  fount  of  maternal  love 
Did  wash  away,  leaving  those  diamond  sands 
Which  memory  from  her  precious  casket  strews. 


200  THE  CONSUMPTIVE  GIRL. 

Behold,  her  darkening  eye  doth  search  for  thee, 
As  the  bowed  violet  through  some  chilling  serene 
Turns  toward  the  Sun  that  cheered  it.     Well  thine  heart 
Hath  read  its  language  from  her  cradle-hour, 
What  saith  it  to  thee  1 

"  Blessed  one,  farewell ! 
I  go  to  Jesus ;  early  didst  thou  teach 
My  soul  the  way,  from  yonder  Book  of  Heaven ; 
Come  soon  to  me,  sweet  guide." 

Ah,  gather  up 
The  glimmering  radiance  of  that  parting  smile — 
Prolong  the  final  kiss — hang  fondly  o'er 
The  quivering  pressure  of  that  marble  hand. 
Those  last,  deep  tokens  of  a  daughter's  love. 

Weep,  but  not  murmur.     She  no  more  shall  pine 
Before  thine  eyes  in  smothered  agony. 
And  waste  away,  and  wear  the  hectic  flush. 
That  cheats  so  long,  to  wake  a  keener  pain. 
Beside  thy  hearth  she  is  a  guest  no  more; 
But  in  Heaven's  beauty  shalt  thou  visit  her, 
In  Heaven's  high  health. 

Cull  her  no  longer  thine. 
Thou  couldst  not  keep  Consumption's  moth  away 
From  her  frail  web  of  life.     Thou  could'st  not  guard 
Thy  darling  from  the  lion.     All  thy  love, 
In  the  best  armour  of  its  sleepless  might. 
The  spoiler  trampled  as  a  reed.     Give  thanks 
That  she  is  safe  with  Him  who  hath  the  power 
O'er  pain  and  sin  and  death.     Mourner  give  thanks. 


201 


CREATION. 


"  Let  there  be  light !"  and  Chaos  fled 

Back  to  his  midnio-ht  cell. 
And  light,  the  earliest  gift  of  Heaven, 

On  cradled  nature  fell. 

Earth  from  the  encroaching  waters  rose, 

Strong  Ocean  knew  his  place, 
Bold  rivers  forced  their  unknown  way, 

Young  streams  began  their  race. 

Forth  came  the  Snn,  that  monarch-proud, 

And  at  his  genial  rays. 
The  springing  groves,  and  pencilled  flowers 

Put  on  new  robes  of  praise. 

But  when  his  weary  couch  he  sought. 

Behold  the  regent-Queen, 
Enthroned  on  silver  car,  pursued 

Her  nightly  course  serene. 

And  glorious  shone  the  arch  of  Heaven 

With  stars  serenely  bright. 
That  bowed  to  every  passing  cloud 

Their  coronets  of  light. 

Life  roamed  along  the  verdant  mead, 

Life  glided  through  the  flood. 
And  tuneful  'mid  the  woven  bousfhs 

Watched  o'er  the  nesting  brood. 


202  CREATION. 

But  then,  with  undisputed  might, 

That  Architect  Divine, 
His  own  immortal  essence  breathed 

Into  a  clay-built  shrine ; 

And  stamped  his  image  on  the  man, 
And  gave  him  kingly  power, 

And  brought  him  to  a  home  of  love 
In  sinless  Eden's  bower. 

Then  music  from  undying  harps 

The  young  creation  blest, 
And  forth  the  first-born  Sabbath  spread 

Its  dove-like  wing  of  rest. 

It  came  with  holy  gladness  fraught, 

With  pure  benignant  ray. 
And  God  himself  the  lesson  taught — 

To  keep  the  Sabbath-day 


if 


203 


MARRIAGE  HYMN. 


Not  for  the  summer-hour  alone, 
When  skies  resplendent  shine, 

And  youth  and  pleasure  fill  the  throne, 
Our  hearts  and  hands  we  join. 

But  for  those  stern  and  wintry  days 

Of  peril,  pain  and  fear. 
When  Heaven's  wise  discipline  doth  make 

This  earthly  journey  drear. 

Not  for  this  span  of  life  alone. 

Which  as  a  blast  doth  fly, 
And  like  the  transient  flower  of  grass. 

Just  blossom,  droop  and  die. 

But  for  a  being  without  end. 

This  vow  of  love  we  take, 
Grant  us,  Oh  God  !  one  home  at  last. 

For  our  Redeemer's  sake. 


204 


METHUSELAH. 


"  And  all  the  days  of  Methuselah  were  nine  hundred  sixty  and  nine 
years — and  he  died." 

GENESIS. 

And  was  this  all  ?  He  died  !  He  who  did  wait 

The  slow  unfolding  of  centurial  years, 

And  shake  that  burden  from  his  heart,  which  turns 

Our  temples  white,  and  in  his  freshness  stand 

Till  cedars  mouldered  and  firm  rocks  grew  grey — 

Left  he  no  trace  upon  the  page  inspired, 

Save  this  one  line — he  died? 

Perchance  he  stood 
Till  all  who  in  his  early  shadow  rose 
Faded  away,  and  he  was  left  alone, 
A  sad,  long-living,  weary-hearted  man. 
To  fear  that  Death,  remembering  all  beside. 
Had  sure  forgotten  him. 

Perchance  he  roved 
Exulting  o'er  the  ever-verdant  vales. 
While  Asia's  sun  burned  fervid  on  his  brow, 
Or  'neath  some  waving  palm-tree  sate  him  down, 
And  in  his  mantling  bosom  nursed  the  pride 
That  mocks  the  pale  destroyer,  and  doth  think 
To  live  forever. 

What  majestic  plans, 
What  mighty  Babels,  what  sublime  resolves. 
Might  in  that  time-defying  bosom  spring. 
Mature,  and  ripen,  and  cast  off  their  fruits 


METHUSELAH.  205 

For  younger  generations  of  bold  thought 

To  wear  their  harvest  diadem,  while  we 

In  the  poor-hour-glass  of  our  seventy  years 

Scarce  see  the  buds  of  some  few  plants  of  hopes, 

Ere  we  are  laid  beside  them,  dust  to  dust. 
Yet  whatsoe'er  his  lot,  in  that  dim  age 

Of  mystery,  when  the  unwrinkled  world  had  drank 
No  deluge-cup  of  bitterness,  whate'er 
Were  earth's  illusions  to  his  dazzled  eye. 
Death  found  him  out  at  last,  and  coldly  wrote, 
With  icy  pen  on  life's  protracted  scroll, 
Naught  but  this  brief  unflattering  line— Ae  died. 

Ye  gay  flower-gatherers  on  time's  crumbling  brink, 
This  shall  be  said  of  you,  howe'er  ye  vaunt 
Your  long  to-morrows  in  an  endless  line, 
Howe'er  amid  the  gardens  of  your  joy 
Ye  hide  yourselves,  and  bid  the  pale  King  pass. 
This  shall  be  said  of  you,  at  last,  he  died; 
Oh,  add  one  sentence  more,  he  lived  to  God. 


206 


"IN  THE  GARDEN  WAS  A  SEPULCHRE." 


St.  John, 

Mourn  not  ye,  whose  babe  hatli  found 
Purer  skies  and  firmer  ground, 
Flowers  of  bright  perennial  hue, 
Free  from  thorns,  and  fresh  with  dew, 
Founts,  that  tempests  never  stir, 
Gardens,  without  sepulchre. 

Mourn  not  ye,  whose  babe  hath  sped, 
From  this  region  of  the  dead, 
To  yon  winged  seraph-band, 
Golden  lute  and  glorious  land, 
Where  no  tempter's  subtle  art 
Clouds  the  brow  or  wounds  the  heart. 

Knowledge,  in  that  clime  doth  grow 
Free  from  weeds  of  toil  and  woe, 
Peace  whose  olive  never  fades. 
Love,  undimmed  by  sorrow's  shades, 
Joys,  which  mortals  may  not  share, 
Mourn  not  ye,  whose  babe  is  there. 


207 


4* 
DEATH  OF  AN  AGED  CHRISTIAN. 


I  THOUGHT  that  death  was  terrible.     I've  seen 

His  ministry  in  the  distorted  brow, 

The  glazing  eye,  the  struggle  and  the  groan. 

With  which  the  heart-strings  break.     Yet  here  was  one 

Whose  summoned  breath  went  forth  as  peacefully 

As  folds  the  spent  rose  when  the  day  is  done. 

Still  life  to  her  was  dear,  for  with  strong  root 

That  charity  whose  fruit  is  happiness 

Did  grow  and  blossom  in  her,  and  the  light 

Of  her  own  cheerful  spirit  flowing  out, 

Tinged  earth's  brief  rain-drops  with  the  bow  of  Heaven. 

Time  had  respected  her,  had  spared  her  brow 

Its  beauty,  and  her  heart  the  unchilled  warmth 

Of  those  affections,  gentle  and  sublime 

Which  make  the  fireside  holy.     Hand  in  hand 

With  those  her  care  had  nurtured,  and  who  joyed. 

To  pay  their  debt  of  gratitude,  she  past. 

Benign  and  graceful,  down  the  vale  of  age, 

Wrapped  up  in  tender  love.     Without  a  sigh, 

A  change  of  feature,  or  a  shaded  smile, 

She  gave  her  hand  to  the  stern  messenger, 

And  as  a  glad  child  seeks  its  Father's  house. 

Went  home.     She  in  her  Saviour's  ranks  had  done 

A  veteran's  service,  and  with  Polycarp 

Might  say  to  Death,  "  For  more  than  fourscore  years 

He  was  my  Lord — shall  I  deny  him  now "?" 

No !  No !  Thou  could'st  not  turn  away  from  him 


208  DEATH  OF  AN  AGED  CHRISTIAN. 

Who  was  thy  hope  from  youth,  and  on  whose  arm 
Thy  feebleness  of  hoary  hairs  was  staid. 
Before  his  Father  and  the  Angel  host 
He  will  adjudge  thee  faithful.     So  farewell, 
Blessed,  and  full  of  days.     No  more  thy  prayer 
Up  through  the  solitude  of  night  shall  rise 
To  bless  thy  children's  children — nor  thy  soul 
Yearn  for  re-union  with  those  kindred  ones 
Who  went  to  rest  before  thee.     'Twas  not  meet 
That  thou  should'st  longer  tarry  from  that  bliss 
Which  God  reserveth  for  the  pure  in  heart. 


J 


209 


SAILOR'S  HYMN. 


When  the  parting  bosom  bleeds, 
When  our  native  shore  recedes, 
When  the  wild  and  faithless  main 
Takes  us  to  her  trust  again, 
Father !  view  a  sailor's  woe — 
Guide  us  wheresoe'er  we  go, 

When  the  lonely  watch  we  keep, 
Silent,  on  the  mighty  deep  ; 
While  the  boisterous  surg-es  hoarse 
Bear  us  darkly  on  our  course. 
Eye  that  never  slumbers  ! — shed 
Holy  influence  on  our  head. 

When  the  sabbath's  peaceful  ray 
O'er  the  ocean's  breast  doth  play, 
Though  no  throngs  assemble  there, 
No  sweet  church-bell  warns  to  prayer. 
Spirit !  let  thy  presence  be. 
Sabbath  to  the  unresting  sea. 

When  the  raging  billows  dark. 
Thundering  toss  our  threatened  bark, 
Thou,  who  on  the  whelming  wave 
Didst  the  weak  disciple  save — 
Thou,  who  hear'st  us  when  we  pray, 
Jesus  !  Saviour !  be  our  stay. 


210  sailor's  hymn. 

When  in  foreign  lands  we  roam, 
Far  from  kindred  and  from  home, 
Stranger-eyes  our  conduct  viewing, 
Heathen-bands  our  steps  pursuing, 
Let  our  conversation  be. 
Fitting  those  who  follow  thee. 

Should  pale  Death,  with  arrow  dread, 
Make  the  ocean-caves  our  bed. 
Though  no  eye  of  love  might  see 
Where  that  shrouded  grave  shall  be — 
Christ!  who  hear'st  the  surges  roll. 
Deign  to  save  the  Sailor's  soul. 


i 


211 


MUSINGS. 


I  DID  not  dreara,  but  yet  fantastic  thought 
Wrought  such  wild  changes  on  the  spirit's  harp, 
It  seemed  that  slumber  ruled. 

A  structure  rose, 
Deep-founded  and  gigantic.     Strangely  blent 
Its  orders  seemed.     The  solemn  Gothic  arch — 
The  obelisk  antique — the  turret  proud 
In  castellated  pomp — the  palace  dome — 
The  grated  dungeon — and  the  peasant's  cot — 
Were  grouped  within  its  walls. 

A  throne  was  there ; 
A  king,  with  all  his  gay  and  courtly  train, 
In  robes  of  splendour,  and  a  vassal  throng. 
Eager  to  do  their  bidding,  and  to  wear 
A  gilded  servitude.     The  back-gound  seemed 
Darkened  by  misery's  pencil.     Famine  cast 
A  tinge  of  paleness  o'er  the  brow  of  toil,     ■' 
While  Poverty,  to  soothe  her  naked  babes. 
Shrieked  forth  a  broken  song. 

Then  came  a  groan — 
A  rush — as  if  of  thunder.     The  grey  rocks 
From  yawning  clefts  breathed  forth  volcanic  flames. 
While  the  huge  fabric,  parting  at  its  base, 
A  ruin  seemed.     A  miserable  mass 
Of  tortured  life  rolled  through  the  burning  gates. 
And  spread  destruction  o'er  the  scorching  soil. 
Like  Etna's  lava-stream. 


212  MUSINGS. 

There  was  a  pause  ! 
Mad  revolution  mourned  its  whirlwind  wreck, 
And  even  'mid  smouldering  fires,  the  artificers 
Wrought  to  uprear  the  pile. 

But  all  at  once, 
A  bugle  blast  was  heard — a  courser's  tramp — 
While  a  young  warrior  waved  his  sword  and  cried — 
"  Away !    Away  !" — Like  dreams  the  pageant  fled, 
Monarch,  and  royal  dome,  and  nobles  proud. 

So  there  he  stood,  in  solitary  power — 
Supreme  and  self-derived.     Where  the  rude  Alps 
Mock  with  their  battlements  the  bowing  cloud, 
His  eagle  banner  streamed.     Pale  Gallia  poured 
Strong  incense  to  her  idol,  mixed  with  blood 
Of  her  young  conscript-hearts.     Chained  in  wild  wrath 
The  Austrian  lion  crouched.     Even  Cajsar's  realm 
Cast  down  its  crown  pontifical,  and  bade 
Tlie  Eternal  City  lay  her  lip  in  dust. 
The  land  of  pyramids  bent  darkly  down. 
And  from  the  subject  nations  rose  a  voice 
Of  wretchedness,  that  awed  the  trembling  globe. 

Earth,  slowly  rising  from  her  thousand  thrones. 
Did  homage  to  the  Corsican,  as  he 
The  favoured  patriarch  in  his  dream  beheld 
Heaven,  with  her  sceptred  blazonry  of  stars, 
Bow  to  a  reaper's  sheaf.  -^ 

But  fickle  man. 
Though  like  the  sea,  he  boast  himself  awhile, 
Hath  bounds  to  his  supremacy.     I  saw 
A  listed  field,  where  the  embattled  kings 
Drew  in  deep  wrath  their  armed  legions  on. 

The  self-made  warrior  blenched  not,  and  his  eye 
Was  like  the  flashing  lightning,  when  it  cleaves 
The  vaulted  firmament. 

In  vain  ! — In  vain  ! 
The  hour  of  fate  had  come.  From  a  far  isle, 
'Gainst  whose  firm  rocks  the  foiled  Pacific  roars. 


i 


MUSINGS.  213 

The  wondering  surges  listened  to  tlie  moan 
Of  a  chafed  spirit  warring  with  its  lot : 
And  there,  where  every  element  conspired 
To  make  ambition's  prison  doubly  sure, 
The  mighty  hero  gnawed  his  chain — and  died. 


214 


THE  DYING  PHILOSOPHER. 


I  HAVE  crept  forth  to  die  among  the  trees, 

They  have  sweet  voices  that  I  love  to  hear, 

Sweet,  lute-lilie  voices.     They  have  been  as  friends 

In  my  adversity — when  sick  and  faint 

I  stretched  me  in  their  shadow  all  day  long  ; 

They  were  not  weary  of  me.     They  sent  down 

Soft  summer  breezes  fraught  with  pitying  sighs 

To  fan  my  blanching  cheek.     Their  lofty  boughs 

Pointed  with  thousand  fingers  to  the  sky. 

And  round  their  trunks  the  wild  vine  fondly  clung, 

Nursing  her  clusters,  and  they  did  not  check 

Her  clasping  tendrils,  nor  deceive  her  trust, 

Nor  blight  her  blossoms,  and  go  towering  up 

In  their  cold  stateliness,  while  on  the  earth 

She  sank  to  die. 

But  thou,  rejoicing  bird,  f^ 

Why  pourest  thou  such  a  rich  and  mellow  lay  JS 

On  my  dull  ear  1     Poor  bird  ! — I  gave  thee  crumbs, 
And  fed  thy  nested  little  ones ;  so  thou  •'■ 

(^Unlike  to  man/)  thou  dost  remember  it. 
O  mine  own  race ! — how  often  have  ye  sate 
Gathered  around  my  table,  shared  my  cup. 
And  worn  my  raiment,  yea!  far  more  than  this, 
Been  sheltered  in  my  bosom,  but  to  turn 
And  lift  the  heel  against  me,  and  cast  out 
My  bleeding  heart  in  morsels  to  the  world. 
Like  catering  cannibals. 


THE  DYING  PHILOSOPHER.  215 

Take  me  not  back 
To  those  imprisoned  curtains,  broidered  thick 
With  pains,  beneath  whose  sleepless  canopy 
I've  pined  away  so  long.     The  purchased  care, 
The  practised  sympathy,  the  fawningr  tone 
Of  him  who  'on  my  vesture  casteth  lots, 
The  weariness,  the  secret  measuring 
How  long  I  have  to  live,  the  guise  of  grief 
So  coarsely  worn — I  would  not  longer  brook 
Such  torturing  ministry.     Let  me  die  here, 
'Tis  but  a  little  while.     Let  me.  die  here. 
Have  patience.  Nature,  with  thy  feeble  son, 
So  soon  to  be  forgot,  and  from  thine  arms. 
Thou  gentle  mother,  from  thy  true  embrace, 
Let  my  freed  spirit  pass. 

Alas !  how  vain 
The  wreath  that  Fame  would  bind  around  our  tomb — 
The  winds  shall  waste  it,  and  the  worms  destroy, 
While  from  its  home  of  bliss  the  disrobe^  soul 
Looks  not  upon  its  greenness,  nor  deplores 
Its  withering  loss.     Ye  who  have  toiled  to  earn 
The  fickle  praise  of  far  posterity. 
Come,  weigh  it  at  the  grave's  brink,  here  with  me, 
If  ye  can  weigh  a  dream . 

Hail,  holy  stars! 
Heaven's  stainless  watchers  o'er  a  world  of  woe, 
Look  down  once  more  upon  me.     When  again, 
In  solemn  night's  dark  regency,  ye  ope 
Your  searching  eyes,  me  shall  ye  not  behold, 
Among  the  living.     Let  me  join  the  song. 
With  which  ye  sweep  along  your  glorious  way  ; 
Teach  me  your  hymn  of  praise.     What  have  I  said  ] 
I  will  not  learn  of  you,  for  ye  shall  fall. 
Lo  !  with  swift  wing  I  mount  above  your  sphere, 
To  see  the  Invisible,  to  know  the  Unknown, 
To  love  the  Uncreated  '.—Earth,  farewell ! 


216 


A  MOTHER  IN  HEAVEN  TO  HER  DYING  BABE. 


Hush,  hush,  ray  wailing  one, 

Thy  mother  hovers  near, 
Her  breath  is  on  thy  pallid  cheek, 

Her  whisper  in  thine  ear ; 
She  may  not  dry  thy  tears, 

Nor  hold  thy  throbbing  head, 
Oh  haste  to  these  immortal  spheres, 

Where  tear  was  never  shed. 

Keen  anguish  wrings  thy  breast, 

And  wakes  the  gasping  sigh. 
Cold  dews  are  gathering  o'er  thy  brow, 

And  darkness  dims  thine  eye, 
Heaven  hath  no  throb  of  pain, 

Heaven  hath  no  tempter's  charms, 
Friends !  Friends ! — why  will  ye  thus  detain 

My  darling  from  my  arms  1 

Long  had  he  dwelt  below, 

Perchance  his  erring  path, 
Had  been  through  bitterness  and  woe. 

On  to  his  Maker's  wrath; 
Why  thus  with  fruitless  cares 

The  angel-spirit  stay  1 
Hark  I  the  Redeemer  calls  it  home, 

Rise,  dearest ! — come  away. 


217 


THE  TOMB  OF  ABSALOM. 


Is  this  thy  tomb,  amid  the  mournful  shades 

Of  the  deep  valley  of  Jehoshaphat, 

Thou  son  of  David  ?     Kidron's  gentle  brook 

Is  murmuring  near,  as  if  it  fain  would  tell 

Thy  varied  history.     Methinks  I  see 

Thy  graceful  form,  thy  smile,  thy  sparkling  eye, 

The  glorious  beauty  of  thy  flowing  hair, 

And  that  bright,  eloquent  lip,  whose  cunning  stole 

The  hearts  of  all  the  people.     Didst  thou  waste 

The  untold  treasures  of  integrity, 

The  gold  of  conscience,  for  their  light  applause, 

Ihou  fair  dissembler? 

Say,  rememberest  thou 
When  o'er  yon  flinty  steep  of  Olivet 
A  sorrowing  train  went  up  ?     Dark  frowning  seers 
Denouncmg  judgment  on  a  rebel  prince. 
Past  sadly  on ;  and  next  a  crownless  king 
Walking  in  sad  and  humbled  majesty. 
While  hoary  statesmen  bent  upon  his  brow 
Indignant  looks  of  tearful  sympathy. 
What  caused  the  weeping  there  ? 

^      ,  .  Thou  heardst  it  not, 

tor  thou  withm  the  city's  walls  didst  hold 
Thy  revel  brief  and  base.     So  thou  could'st  set 
The  embattled  host  against  thy  father's  life, 
The  king  of  Israel,  and  the  loved  of  God  ! 
He  'mid  the  evils  of  his  changeful  lot, 
T 


218  THE  TOMB  OP  ABSALOM. 

Saul's  moody  hatred,  stem  Philistia's  spear, 
His  alien  wanderings,  and  his  warrior  toil, 
Found  nought  so  bitter  as  the  rankling  thorn 
Set  by  thy  madness  of  ingratitude 
Deep  in  his  yearning  soul. 

What  were  thy  thoughts 

When  in  the  mesh  of  thy  own  tresses  snared 

Amid  the  oak  whose  quiet  verdure  mocked 

Thy  misery,  forsook  by  all  who  shared 

Thy  meteor-greatness  and  constrained  to  learn 

There  in  that  solitude  of  agony, 

A  traitor  hath  no  friends  ! — what  were  thy  thoughts 

When  death  careering  on  the  triple  dart 

Of  vengeful  Joab  found  thee'?     To  thy  God 

Rose  there  one  cry  of  penitence,  one  prayer 

For  that  unmeasured  mercy  which  can  cleanse 

Unbounded  guilt!     Or  turned  thy  stricken  heart 

Toward  him  who  o'er  thy  infant  graces  watched 

With  tender  pride,  and  all  thy  sins  of  youth 

In  blindfold  fondness  pardoned  \     All  thy  crimes 

Were  cancelled  in  that  plentitude  of  love 

Which  laves  with  fresh  and  everlasting  tide 

A  parent's  heart. 

I  see  that  form  which  awed 
The  foes  of  Israel  with  its  victor-might 
Bowed  low  in  grief,  and  hear  upon  the  breeze 
That  sweeps  the  palm-groves  of  Jerusalem, 
The  wild  continuous  wail, — "  Oh  Absalom  ! 
My  son  !     My  son  !" 

We  turn  us  from  thy  tomb, 
Usurping  prince !     Thy  beauty  and  thy  grace 
Have  perished  with  thee,  but  thy  fame  survives — 
The  ingrate  son  that  pierced  a  father's  heart. 


219 


THE  LOST  DARLING. 


She  was  my  idol.     Night  and  day  to  scan 
Tlie  fine  expansion  of  her  form,  and  mark 
The  unfolding  mind  like  vernal  rose-bnd  start 
To  sudden  beauty,  was  my  chief  delight. 
To  find  her  fairy  footsteps  follow  me, 
Her  hand  upon  my  garments,  or  her  lip 
Long  sealed  to  mine,  and  in  the  watch  of  night 
The  quiet  breath  of  innocence  to  feel 
Soft  on  my  cheek,  was  such  a  full  content 
Of  happiness,  as  none  but  mothers  know. 

Her  voice  was  like  some  tiny  harp  that  yields 
To  the  slight  fingered  breeze,  and  as  it  held 
Brief  converse  with  her  doll,  or  playful  soothed 
The  moaning  kitten,  or  with  patient  care 
Conned  o'er  the  alphabet — but  most  of  all 
Its  tender  cadence  in  her  evening  prayer 
Thrilled  on  the  ear  like  some  ethereal  tone 
Heard  in  sweet  dreams. 

But  now  alone  I  sit. 
Musing  of  her,  and  dew  with  mournful  tears 
Her  little  robes,  that  once  with  woman's  pride 
I  wrought,  as  if  there  were  a  need  to  deck 
What  God  had  made  so  beautiful.     I  start. 
Half  fancying  from  her  empty  crib  there  comes 
A  restless  sound,  and  breathe  the  accustomed  words 
"  Hush  !    Hush  thee,  dearest."     Then  I  bend  and  weep- 
As  though  it  were  a  sin  to  speak  to  one 
"Whose  home  is  with  the  angels. 


'&'■ 


220  THE  LOST  DARLING. 

Gone  to  God ! 
And  yet  I  wish  I  had  not  seen  the  pang 
That  wrung  her  features,  nor  the  ghastly  white 
Settling  around  her  lips.     I  would  that  Heaven 
Had  taken  its  own,  like  some  transplanted  flower, 
Blooming  in  all  its  freshness. 

Gone  to  God.' 
Be  still  my  heart !  what  could  a  mother's  prayer, 
In  all  the  wildest  extacy  of  hope. 
Ask  for  its  darling  like  the  bliss  of  heaven  ? 


■  A 


221 


THE  SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 


ADAPTED  TO  A  PICTURE. 

How  doth  this  picture's  art  relume 
Of  childhood's  scenes   the  buried  bloom  ! 
How  from  oblivion's  sweeping  stream 
Each  floating  flower  and  leaf  redeem  ! 
From  neighbouring  spire,  the  iron  chime 
That  told  the  school's  allotted  time, 
The  lowly  porch  where  woodbine  crept, 
The  floor  with  careful  neatness  swept, 
The  hour-glass  in  its  guarded  nook. 
Which  oft  our  busy  fingers  shook 
By  stealth,  if  flowed  too  slow  away 
The  sands  that  held  us  from  our  play ; 
The  murmured  task,  the  frequent  tear, 
The  timid  laugh,  prolonged  and  dear, 
These  all  on  heart,  and  ear,  and  eye, 
Come  thronging  back,  from  years  gone  by. 

And  there  thou  art !  in  peaceful  age 
"With  brow  as  thoughtful,  mild  and  sage, 
As  when  upon  thy  pupil's  heart 
Thy  lessons  breathed — yes  there  thou  art! 
And  in  thy  hand  that  sacred  book 
Whereon  it  was  our  pride  to  look. 
Whose  truths  around  thy  hoary  head, 
A  never-fading  halo  shed, 
Whose  glorious  hopes  in  holy  trust 
Still  blossom  o'er  thy  mouldering  dust. 
T  * 


222  THE  SCHOOL-MISTRESS. 

Even  thus  it  is,  where'er  we  range, 
Throughout  this  world  of  care  and  change. 
Though  Fancy  every  prospect  gild, 
Or  Fortune  write  each  wish  fulfilled. 
Still,  pausing  'mid  our  varied  track. 
To  childhood's  realm  we  turn  us  back, 
And  wider  as  the  hand  of  time 
Removes  us  from  that  sunny  clime. 
And  nearer  as  our  footsteps  urge 
To  weary  life's  extremest  verge, 
With  fonder  smile,  with  brighter  beam, 
Its  far-receding  landscapes  gleam, 
And  closer  to  the  withered  breast. 
Its  renovated  charms  are  prest. 

And  thus  the  stream,  as  on  it  flows, 
'Neath  summer-suns,  or  wintry  snows, 
Through  vale,  or  maze,  or  desert  led,] 
Untiring  tells  its  pebbly  bed. 
How  passing  sweet  the  buds  that  Jirst 
Upon  its  infant  marge  were  nurst, 
How  rich  the  violet's  breath  perfumed. 
That  near  its  cradle-fountain  bloomed, 
And  deerns  no  skies  were  e'er  so  fair 
As  kindled  o'er  its  birth-place  there. 


# 


223 


THE  SAILOR'S  FUNERAL. 


The  ship's  bell  tolled,  and  slowly  o'er  the  deck 

Came  forth  the  summoned  crew. — Bold,  hardy  men, 

Far  from  their  native  skies,  stood  silent  there. 

With  melancholy  brows. — From  a  low  cloud 

That  o'er  the  horizon  hovered,  came  the  threat 

Of  distant,  muttered  thunder.     Broken  waves 

Heaved  up  their  sharp,  white  helmets,  o'er  the  expanse 

Of  ocean,  which  in  brooding  stillness  lay 

Like  some  vindictive  king,  who  meditates 

On  hoarded  wrongs,  or  wakes  the  wrathful  war. 

The  ship's  bell  tolled  ! — And  lo,  a  youthful  form. 
Which  oft  had  boldly  dared  the  slippery  shrouds 
At  midnight's  watch,  was  as  a  burden  laid 
Down  at  his  comrades'  feet. — Mournful  they  gazed 
Upon  his  hollow  cheek,  and  some  there  were 
Who  in  that  bitter  hour  remembered  well 
The  parting  blessing  of  his  hoary  sire. 
And  the  fond  tears  that  o'er  his  mother's  cheek 
Went  coursing  down,  when  his  gay,  happy  voice 
Left  its  farewell. — But  one  who  nearest  stood 
To  that  pale  shrouded  corse,  remeinhered  more  ■■ — 
Of  a  white  cottage  with  its  shaven  lawn, 
Aird  blossomed  hedge,  and  of  a  fair-haired  girl 
Who  at  her  lattice,  veiled  with  woodbine,  watched 
His  last,  far  step,  and  then  turned  back  to  weep. 
And  close  that  comrade  in  his  faithful  breast 
Hid  a  bright  chestnut  lock,  which  the  dead  youth 
Had  severed  with  a  cold  and  trembling  hand 


224  THE  sailor's  funeral. 

In  life's  extremity,  and  bade  him  bear 
With  broken  words  of  love's  last  eloquence 

To  his  blest  Mary Now  that  chosen  friend 

Bowed  low  his  sun-burnt  face,  and  like  a  child 
Sobbed  in  deep  sorrow. 

But  there  came  a  tone, 
Clear  as  the  breaking  moon  o'er  stormy  seas — 
"  I  am  the  resurrection!'''' — Every  heart 
Suppressed  its  grief,  and  every  eye  was  raised. 
There  stood  the  chaplain,  his  uncovered  brow 
Unmarked  by  earthly  passion,  while  his  voice, 
Rich  as  the  balm  from  plants  of  paradise. 
Poured  the  Eternal's  message  o'er  the  souls 
Of  dying  men.     It  was  a  holy  hour  ! 
There  lay  the  wreck  of  manly  beauty,  here 
Bent  mourning  friendship,  while  supporting  faith 
Cast  her  strong  anchor,  where  no  wrathful  surge 
Might  overwhelm,  nor  mortal  foe  invade. 

There  was  a  plunge  ! — The  riven  sea  complained, 
Death  from  her  briny  bosom  took  his  own. 

The  troubled  fountains  of  the  deep  lift  up 
Their  subterranean  portals,  and  he  went 
Down  to  the  floor  of  ocean,  'mid  the  beds 
Of  brave  and  beautiful  ones.     Yet  to  my  soul, 
Mid  all  the  funeral  pomp,  with  which  this  earth 
Indulgeth  her  dead  sons,  was  nought  so  sad. 
Sublime  or  sorrowful,  as  the  mute  sea 
Opening  her  mouth  to  whelm  that  sailor  youth. 


225 


ZAMA. 


I  LOOKED,  and  on  old  Zama's  arid  plain 

Two  chieftains  stood.    At  distance  ranged  their  hosts, 

While  they  with  flashing  eye,  and  gesture  strong. 

Held  their  high  parley.     Ont  was  sternly  marked 

With  care  and  hardship.     Still  his  warrior  soul 

Frowned  in  unbroken  might,  as  when  he  sealed, 

In  ardent  boyhood,  the  eternal  vow 

Of  enmity  to  Rome.     The  other  seemed 

Of  younger  years,  and  on  his  noble  brow 

Beauty  with  magnanimity  sat  throned ; 

And  yet,  methought,  his  darkening  eye-ball  said 

"  Delendo  est  Carthago." 

Brief  they  spake, 
And  parted  as  proud  souls  in  anger  part. 
While  the  wild  shriek  of  trumpets,  and  the  rush 
Of  cohorts  rent  the  air.     I  turned  away. 
The  pomp  of  battle,  and  the  din  of  arms 
May  round  a  period  well,  but  to  behold 
The  mortal  struggle,  and  the  riven  shield — 
To  mark  how  Nature's  holiest,  tenderest  ties 
Are  sundered — to  recount  the  childless  homes, 
And  sireless  babes,  and  widows'  early  graves, 
Made  by  ont  victor-shout,  bids  the  blood  creep 
Cold  through  its  channels. 

Once  again  I  looked 
When  the  pure  moon  unveiled  a  silent  scene. 
Silent,  save  when  from  'neath  some  weltering  pile 


226  ZAMA. 

A  dying  war-horse  neighed,  in  whose  gored  breast 
Life  lingered  stubbornly,  or  some  pale  knight 
Half-raised  his  arm,  awakened  by  the  call 
Of  his  loved  steed,  even  from  the  dream  of  death. 

With  stealthy  step  the  prowling  plunderer  stalked, 
The  dark-winored  raven  led  her  clamorous  brood 
To  their  full  feast,  and  on  the  shadowy  skirts 
Of  that  dire  field,  the  fierce  hyena  rolled 
A  keen,  malevolent  eye- 
Time  sped  his  course. 
Fresh  verdure  mantled  Zama's  fatal  plain, 
While  Carthage,  with  a  subjugated  knee 
And  crownless  head,  toiled  'mid  the  slaves  of  Rome. 

Once  more  I  sought  Hamilcar's  awful  son — 
And  lo  !  an  exiled,  and  despised  old  m.an, 
Guest  of  Bithynian  perfidy,  did  grasp 
The  poison-goblet  in  his  withered  hand, 
And  drink  and  die  ! 

Say  !  is  this  he  who  rent 
The  bloody  laurel  from  Saguntnm's  walls  T 
That  Eagle  of  the  Alps,  who  through  the  clouds, 
Which  wrapped  in  murky  folds  their  slippery  heights, 
Forced  his  unwieldy  elephants  ?  who  rolled 
Victory's  hoarse  thunder  o'er  Ticinus'  tide? 
And  'mid  the  field  of  Cannae  waved  his  sword 
Like  a  destroying  angel  1 

This  is  he  ! 
And  this  is  human  glory  ! 

God  of  Might ! 
Gird  with  thy  shield  our  vacillating  hearts. 
That  'mid  the  illusive  and  bewildering  paths 
Of  this  brief  pilgrimage,  we  may  not  lose 
Both  this  world's  peace,  and  the  rewards  of  that 
W'hich  hath  no  shadow. 

From  this  double  loss, 
This  wreck  of  all  probationary  hope. 
Defend  us,  by  thy  power. 


007 


DEATH  OF  A  MISSIONARY  TO  LIBERIA. 


There  is  a  sip^h  from  Niger's  sable  realm, 
A  voice  of  Afric's  weeping.     One  hath  fallen, 
Who  pitched  his  tent  on  far  Liberia's  sands, 
And  with  the  fervour  of  unresting  love 
Did  warn  her  children  to  a  Saviour's  arms. 

Alone  he  fell — that  heart  so  richly  filled 
With  all  affection's  imagery — fair  scenes 
Of  home  and  brotherhood — so  strongly  moved 
To  pour  the  promptings  of  its  seraph-zeal 
In  boundless  confidence,  and  so  replete 
With  tender  memory  of  its  buried  joys. 
That  'mid  their  hallowed  tombs  it  fain  Lad  slept, 
Did  in  its  stranger-solitude  endure 
The  loncT  death-struggle  and  sink  down  to  rest. 

Say  ye  alone  he  fell  1     It  was  not  so. 
There  was  a  hovering  of  celestial  wings 
Around  his  lowly  couch,  a  solemn  sound 
Of  stricken  harps,  such  as  around  God's  throne 
Make  music  night  and  day.     He  might  not  tell 
Of  that  high  music,  for  his  lip  was  sealed. 
And  his  eye  closed.     And  so,  ye  say — he  died, 
But  all  the  glorious  company  of  Heaven 
Do  say — he  lives,  and  that  your  brief  farewell, 
Uttered  in  tears,  was  but  the  prelude-tone 
Of  the  full  welcome  of  eternity. 


228 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  MOTHERLESS  CHILDREN. 


Come,  gather  closer  to  my  side, 

My  little  smitten  flock, 
And  I  will  tell  of  him  who  brought 

Pure  water  from  the  rock — 
"Who  boldly  led  God's  people  forth 

From  Egypt's  wrath  and  guile. 
And  once  a  cradled  babe  did  float. 

All  helpless  on  the  Nile. 

You're  weary,  precious  ones,  your  eyes 

Are  wandering  far  and  wide. 
Think  ye  of  her  who  knew  so  well 

Your  tender  thought  to  guide? 
"Who  could  to  Wisdom's  sacred  lore 

Your  fixed  attention  claim  I 
Ah  !  never  from  your  hearts  erase 

That  blessed  Mother's  name. 

'Tis  time  to  sing  your  evening  hymn, 

My  youngest  infant  dove. 
Come  press  thy  velvet  cheek  to  mine. 

And  learn  the  lay  of  love ; 
My  sheltering  arms  can  clasp  you  all,  || 

My  poor  deserted  throng,  ? 

Cling  as  you  used  to  cling  to  her 

"Who  sings  the  angel's  song. 


A  FATHER  TO  HIS  MOTHERLESS  CHILDREN.     229 

Begin,  sweet  birds,  the  accustomed  strain. 

Come,  warble  loud  and  clear ; 
Alas !  alas  !  you're  weeping  all, 

You're  sobbing  in  my  ear ; 
Good  night — go  say  the  prayer  she  taught, 

Beside  your  little  bed. 
The  lips  that  used  to  bless  you  there, 

Are  silent  with  the  dead. 

.    A  father's  hand  your  course  may  guide 
'        Amid  the  thorns  of  life. 

His  care  protect  those  shrinking  plants 

That  dread  the  storms  of  strife ; 
But  who,  upon  your  infant  hearts 

Shall  like  that  mother  write  ? 
Who  touch  the  strings  that  rule  the  soul  1 
Dear,  smitten  flock,  good  night ! 


U 


230 


THE  MOURNING  LOVER. 


There  was  a  noble  form,  which  oft  1  marked 
As  the  full  blossom  of  bright  boyhood's  charms 
Ripened  to  manly  beauty.     Nature  bade 
His  eloquent  lip  and  fervid  eye  to  win 
Fair  woman's  trusting  heart. 

Yet  not  content, 
Because  ambition's  fever  wrought  within, 
He  went  to  battle,  and  the  crimson  sod 
Told  where  his  life-blood  gushed. 

The  maid  who  kept 
In  her  young  heart  the  secret  of  his  love, 
With  all  its  hoarded  store  of  sympathies 
And  images  of  hope,  think  ye  she  gave, 
When  a  few  years  their  fleeting  course  had  run, 
Her  heart  again  to  man  1 

No  !  No  !  She  twined 
Its  riven  tendrils  round  a  surer  prop. 
And  reared  its  blighted  blossoms  toward  that  sky 
W^hich  hath  no  cloud.     She  sought  devotion's  balm, 
And  with  a  gentle  sadness  turned  her  soul 
From  gaiety  and  song.     Pleasure,  for  her, 
Had  lost  its  essence,  and  the  viol's  voice 
Gave  but  a  sorrowing  sound.     Even  her  loved  plants 
Breathed  too  distinctly  of  the  form  that  bent 
With  her's  to  watch  their  budding.     'Mid  their  flowers, 
And  through  the  twining  of  their  pensile  stems. 
The  semblance  of  a  cold,  dead  hand  would  rise, 


THE  MOURNING  LOVER.  231 

Until  she  bade  them  droop  and  pass  away 
With  him  she  mourned. 

And  so,  with  widowed  heart 
She  parted  out  her  pittance  to  the  poor, 
Sat  by  the  bed  of  sickness,  dried  the  tear 
Of  the  forgotten  weeper,  and  did  robe 
Herself  in  mercy,  like  the  bride  of  Heaven. 
Years  past  away,  and  still  she  seemed  unchanged, 
The  principle  of  beauty  hath  no  age, 
It  looketh  forth,  even  though  the  eye  be  dim, 
The  forehead  frost-crowned,  yea,  it  looketh  forth, 
Wherever  there  doth  dwell  a  tender  soul, 
That  in  its  chastened  cheerfulness  would  shed 
Sweet  charity  on  all  whom  God  hath  made. 
Years  past  away,  and  'mid  her  holy  toils 
The  hermit-heart  found  rest.     Each  night  it  seemed, 
When  to  her  lonely,  prayerful  couch  she  came, 
As  if  an  angel  folded  bis  pure  wing 
Around  her  breast,  inspiring  it  to  hold 
A  saint's  endurance. 

Of  her  spirit's  grief 
She  never  spake.     But  as  the  flush  of  health 
Receded  from  her  cheek,  her  patient  eye 
Gathered  new  lustre,  and  the  mighty  wing 
Of  that  supporting  angel  seemed  to  gird 
Closer  her  languid  bosom,  while  in  dreams 
A  tuneful  tone,  like  his  who  slumbered  deep 
Amid  his  country's  dead,  told  her  of  climes 
Where  vows  are  never  sundered. 

One  mild  eve, 
When  on  the  foreheads  of  the  sleeping  flowers 
The  loving  spring-dews  hung  their  diamond  wreaths, 
She  from  her  casket  drew  a  raven  curl, 
Which  once  had  clustered  round  her  lost  one's  brow. 
And  prest  it  to  her  lips  and  laid  it  down 
Upon  her  bible,  while  she  knelt  to  pour 
The  nightly  incense  of  a  stricken  heart 


232 


THE  MOURNING  LOVER. 


At  her  Redeemer's  feet.     Grey  morning  came, 
And  still  her  white  cheek  on  that  holy  page 
Did  calmly  rest.     Her's  was  that  quiet  sleep 
Which  hath  no  wakening  here.     Fled  from  her  brow 
Was  every  trace  of  pain,  and  in  its  stead 
Methought  the  angel  who  so  long  had  been 
Her  comforter,  had  left  a  farewell-gift. 
That  smile  which  in  the  Court  of  Heaven  doth  learn. 


233 


PICTURE  OF  A  SLEEPING   INFANT,  WATCHED 

BY  A  DOG. 

Sweet  are  thy  slumbers,  baby.     Gentle  gales 
Do  lift  tlie  curtaining  foliage  o'er  thy  head, 
And  nested  birds  sing  lullaby;   and  flowers 
That  form  the  living  broidery  of  thy  couch 
Shed  fresh  perfume. 

He,  too,  whose  guardian  eye 
Pondereth  thy  features  with  such  true  delight. 
And  faithful  semblance  of  parental  care; 
Counting  his  master's  darling  as  his  own. 
Should  aught  upon  thy  helpless  rest  intrude, 
Would  show  a  lion's  wrath. 

And  when  she  comes, 
Thy  peasant-mother,  from  her  weary  toil, 
•Thy  shout  will  cheer  her,  and  thy  little  arms 
Entwine  her  sunburnt  neck,  with  joy  as  full 
As  infancy  can  feel.     They  who  recline 
In  royalty's  proud  cradle,  lulled  with  strains 
Of  warbling  lute,  and  watched  by  princely  eyes, 
And  wrapt  in  golden  tissue,  share  perchance, 
No  sleep  so  sweet  as  thine. 

Is  it  not  thus 
With  us,  the  larger  children?     Gorgeous  robes, 
And  all  the  proud  appliances  of  wealth 
Touch  not  the  heart's  content:  but  he  is  blest, 
Though  clad  in  humble  garb,  who  peaceful  greets 
The  smile  of  nature,  with  a  soul  of  love. 


234 


ON  THE  ESTABLISHMENT  OF  SCHOOLS  IN 

AFRICA. 


Spirit  of  Science !  who  so  long 

Expatriate  from  thy  native  sphere, 
Hast  traced  no  line,  and  breathed  no  song. 

That  dark,  deserted  land  to  cheer — 

Spirit  of  Power !  who  lotus-crowned 
Didst  reign  'mid  Egypt's  temples  proud, 

But  in  oblivion's  slumbers  drowned 

'Neath  the  drear  pyramids  hast  bowed — 

Spirit  of  Piety !  who  nursed 

Of  old,  amid  that  sultry  clime 
Oft  from  TertuUian's  musing  burst, 

Or  martyred  Cyprian's  page  sublime. 

Again  ye  wake,  ye  thrill  the  soul, 

Your  resurrection  morn  appears, 
Ye  pour  your  language  o'er  the  scroll 

Which  Afric  scans  through  raptured  tears ; 

Wide  may  your  hallowed  wings  expand  I 

From  shore  to  shore,  from  wave  to  wave,  ' 

Till  distant  realms  shall  stretch  the  hand  ^j 
To  strike  the  fetter  from  the  slave — 


ESTABLISHMEKT  OF  SCHOOLS  IN  AFRICA.  235 

Till  Afric  to  her  farthest  bound 

Shall  bid  each  billow  of  the  sea, 
And  every  palm-grove,  catch  the  sound, 

And  echoing  shout — '■'■Befree!  he  free!'''' 


236 


ROME. 


'T  IS  sunset  on  the  Palatine.     A  flood  i 

Of  living  glory  wraps  the  Sabine  hills,  ? 

And  o'er  the  rough  and  serrate  Appenines 

Floats  like  a  burning  mantle.     Purple  mists 

Rise  faintly  o'er  the  grey  and  ivied  tombs 

Of  the  Campagna,  as  sad  memory  steals 

Forth  from  the  twilight  of  the  heart,  to  hold 

Its  mournful  vigil  o'er  affection's  dust. 

Was  that  thy  camp,  eld  Romulus'?  where  creeps 

The  clinging  vine-flower  round  yon  fallen  fanes 

And  mouldering  columns  1 

Lo  !  thy  clay-built  huts, 
And  band  of  malcontents,  with  barbarous  port, 
Up  from  the  sea  of  buried  ages  rise, 
Darkening  the  scene.     Methinks  I  see  thee  stand, 
Thou  wolf-nursed  monarch,  o'er  the  human  herd 
Supreme  in  savageness,  yet  strong  to  plant 
Barrier  and  bulwark,  whence  should  burst  a  might 
And  majesty,  by  thy  untutored  soul 
Unmeasured,  unconceived.     As  little  dreams 
The  truant  boy,  who  to  the  teeming  earth 
Casts  the  light  acorn,  of  the  forest's  pomp, 
"Which  springing  from  that  noteless  germ,  shall  rear 
Its  banner  to  the  skies,  when  he  must  sleep 
A  noteless  atom. 

Hark  !  the  owlet's  cry 
That,  like  a  muttering  sybil,  makes  her  cell 
'Mid  Nero's  house  of  gold,  with  clustering  bats. 


ROME.  237 

And  gliding  lizards.  Would  she  tell  to  man 
In  the  hoarse  plaint  of  that  discordant  shriek, 
The  end  of  earthly  glory  1 

See,  how  meek 
And  unpretending,  'mid  the  ruined  pride 
Of  Caracalla's  circus,  yon  white  flock 
Do  find  their  sweet  repast.     The  playful  Iamb, 
Fast  by  its  mother's  side,  doth  roam  at  peace. 
How  little  dream  they  of  the  hideous  roar 
Of  the  Numidian  lion,  or  the  rage 
Of  the  fierce  tiger,  that  in  ancient  times 
Fought  in  this  same  arena,  for  the  sport 
Of  a  barbarian  throng.     With  furious  haste 
No  more  the  chariot  round  the  stadium  flies ; 
Nor  toil  the  rivals  in  the  painful  race 
To  the  far  goal ;  nor  from  yon  broken  arch 
Comes  forth  the  victor,  with  flushed  brow,  to  claim 
The  hard-earned  garland.     All  have  past  away, 
Save  the  dead  ruins,  and  the  living  robe 
That  Nature  wraps  around  them.     Anxious  fear, 
High-swollen  expectancy,  intense  despair. 
And  wild,  exulting  triumph,  here  have  reigned, 
And  perished  all. 

'T  were  well  could  we  forget 
How  oft  the  gladiator's  blood  hath  stained 
Yon  grass-grown  pavement,  while  imperial  Rome, 
With  all  her  fairest,  brightest  brows  looked  down 
On  the  stern  courage  of  the  wounded  wretch 
Grappling  with  mortal  agony.     The  sigh 
Or  tone  of  tender  pity,  were  to  him 
A  dialect  unknown,  o'er  whose  dim  eye 
The  distant  vision  of  his  cabin  rude, 
With  all  its  echoing  voices,  all  the  rush 
Of  its  cool,  flowing  waters,  brought  a  pang 
To  which  the  torture  of  keen  death  was  light. 
A  haughtier  phantom  stalks  !     What  dost  thou  here, 
Dark  Caracalla,  fratricide  1  whose  step 


238  ROME. 

Through  the  proud  mazes  of  thy  regal  dome 

Pursued  the  flying  Geta ;  and  whose  hand 

'Mid  that  heaven -sanctioned  shrine,  a  mother's  breast. 

Did  pierce  his  bosom.     Was  it  worth  the  price 

Thus  of  a  brother's  blood,  to  reign  alone, 

Those  few,  short,  poisoned  years  1 

Around  thy  couch 
Gleamed  there  no  nightly  terror?  no  strange  dream 
Of  bright  locks,  dripping  blood  upon  thy  soul 
In  fiery  martyrdom  ]     Rose  not  thy  sire, 
The  stern  Severus,  from  his  British  tomb 
To  ask  thee  of  thy  brother,  and  to  curse 
The  mad  ambition  of  the  second  Cain  1 
Was  there  no  pause,  no  conflict,  ere  thy  heart 
Plunged  into  guilt  like  this?  no  fluttering  pulse, 
No  warning  of  offended  Deity,  to  make 
Thy  spirit  quail  ■?  or  didst  thou  shake  thy  spear 
At  virtue's  guards,  and  coldly  sell  thy  soul  1 
Fade,  fade,  grim  phantom  !  'tis  too  horrible 
To  question  thus  with  thee. 

Again  the  scene 
Spreads  unempurpled,  unimpassioned  forth  ; 
The  white  lambs  resting  'neath  the  evening  shade, 
While  dimly  curtained  'mid  her  glory,  Rome 
Slumbereth,  as  one  o'erwearied. 


239 


AN  EXHIBITION  OF  A  SCHOOL  OF  YOUNG 

LADIES. 


How  fair  upon  the  admiring  sight, 

In  Learning's  sacred  fane, 
With  cheek  of  bloom,  and  robe  of  white 

Glide  on  yon  graceful  train ! 
Blest  creatures  !  to  whose  gentle  eye 

Earth's  gilded  gifts  are  new. 
Ye  know  not  that  distrustful  sigh 

Which  deems  its  vows  untrue. 

There  is  a  bubble  on  your  cup 

By  buoyant  fancy  nurst. 
How  high  its  sparkling  foam  leaps  up  ! 

Ye  do  not  think  H  will  burst  ; 
And  be  it  far  from  me  to  fling 

On  budding  joys  a  blight, 
Or  darkly  spread  a  raven's  wing 

To  shade  a  path  so  bright. 

There  twines  a  wreath  around  your  brow, 

Blent  with  the  sunny  braid. 
Love  lends  its  flowers  a  radiant  o-low. 

Ye  do  not  think  H  will  fade.- 
And  yet  't  were  safer  there  to  bind 

That  plant  of  changeless  die, 
Whose  root  is  in  the  lowly  mind. 

Whose  blossom  in  the  sky. 


240  EXHIBITION-  OF  A  SCHOOL. 

Yet  who  o'er  Beauty's  form  can  hang 

Nor  think  how  future  years 
May  bring  stern  Sorrow's  speechless  pang, 

Or  Disappointment's  tears, 
Unceasing  toil,  unpitied  care, 

Cold  treachery's  serpent  moan, 
Dls  that  the  tender  heart  must  bear, 

Unanswering  and  alone. 

But  as  the  frail  and  fragrant  flower, 

Crushed  by  the  sweeping  blast. 
Doth  even  in  death  an  essence  pour. 

The  sweetest,  and  the  last. 
So  woman's  deep,  enduring  love, 

Which  nothing  can  appal. 
Her  steadfast  faith,  that  looks  above 

For  rest,  can  conquer  all. 


241 


A  DOOR  OPENED  IN  HEAVEN. 


'  T  looked,  and  behold,  a  door  was  opened  in  Heaven." 

Revelations,  IV.  31. 


It  seemed  not  as  a  dream,  and  yet  I  stood 

Beside  Heaven's  gate.     Its  mighty  valves  were  loosed, 

And  upward,  from  earth's  tribulation  came 

A  soul,  whose  passport,  signed  in  Calvary's  blood, 

Prevailed.     Around  the  golden  threshold's  verge 

I  saw  the  dazzling  of  celestial  wings. 

Thronging  to  welcome  it.     The  towering  form 

Of  an  archangel  bore  it  company 

Up  to  God's  throne.     Soft  on  my  ear  their  tones, 

Serenely  wafted  by  ambrosial  gales, 

Fell  like  rich  music. 

"  Wherefore  didst  thou  pass 
Weeping  along  thy  pilgrimage"?"  inquired 
The  sinless  seraph. 

"Thorns  beset  my  path. 
I  sought  and  found  not.     I  obtained  and  mourned. 
I  loved  and  lost.     Ingratitude  and  Hate 
Did  whet  their  serpent  tooth  upon  my  fame — 
My  wealth  took  wing.     I  planted  seeds  of  bliss. 
And  sorrow  blossomed." 

But  the  risen  from  earth 
Faultered  to  mark  that  high  archangel's  glance 
Bent  downward  with  surprise,  as  though  it  asked 
"  Had  thy  felicitg-  no  deeper  root, 

V 


242  A  DOOR  OPENED  IN  HEAVEN. 

Thou  sky-born  soul,  for  whom  the  Christ  of  God 
Eowed  to  be  crucified'?" 

So  when  I  saw, 
Or  dreamed  I  saw,  that  even  in  Heaven  might  dwell 
Reproof  and  penitence,  I  prayed  to  look 
Ever  upon  that  flood  of  light  which  gilds 
Each  morning  with  its  mercy;  and  whose  beams 
Are  brightened  every  moment,  and  to  bear 
God's  discipline  with  gladness,  that  no  tear 
For  trials  lost,  be  shed  beyond  the  grave. 


243 


PASSAGE  OF  THE  BERESINA. 


"  On  with  the  cohorts,— on  !     A  darkening  cloud 
Of  Cossack  lances  hovers  o'er  the  heights  ; 
And  hark  ! — the  Russian  tliunder  on  the  rear 
Thins  the  retreating  ranks." 

The  haggard  French, 
Like  summoned  spectres,  facing  toward  their  foes. 
And  goading  on  the  lean  and  dying  steeds 
That  totter  'neath  their  huge  artillery, 
Give  desperate  battle.     Wrapt  in  volumed  smoke 
A  densp  and  motley  mass  of  hurried  forms 
Rush  toward  the  Beresina.     Soldiers  mix 
Undisciplined  amid  the  feebler  throng, 
While  from  the  rough  ravines  the  rumbling  cars 
That  bear  the  sick  and  wounded,  with  the  spoils, 
Torn  rashly  from  red  Moscow's  sea  of  flame, 
Line  the  steep  banks.     Chilled  with  the  endless  shade 
Of  black  pine-forests,  where  unslumbering  winds 
Make  bitter  music — every  heart  is  sick 
For  the  warm  breath  of  its  far,  native  vales, 
Vine-clad  and  beautiful.     Pale,  meagre  hands 
Stretched  forth  in  eager  misery,  implore 
Quick  passage  o'er  the  flood.     But  there  it  rolls, 
'Neath  its  ice-curtain,  horrible  and  hoarse, 
A  fatal  barrier  'gainst  its  country's  foes. 
The  combat  deepens.     Lo  !  in  one  broad  flash 
The  Russian  sabre  gleams,  and  the  wild  hoof 
Treads  out  despairing  life. 

With  maniac  haste 
They  throng  the  bridge,  those  fugitives  of  France, 


244  PASSAGE  OF  THE  BERESINA. 

Reckless  of  all,  save  that  last,  desperate  chance — 
Rush,  struggle,  strive,  the  povi^erful  thrust  the  vi^eak, 
And  crush  the  dying. 

Hark !  a  thundering  crash, 
A  cry  of  horror !     Down  the  broken  bridge 
Sinks,  and  the  wretched  multitude  plunge  deep 

JNeath  the  devouring  tide.     That  piercing  shriek 
Witli  which  they  took  their  farewell  of  the  sky 
Did  haunt  the  living,  as  some  doleful  ghost 
Troubleth  the  fever-dream.     Some  for  a  while, 
With  ice  and  death  contending,  sink  and  rise. 
While  some  in  wilder  agony  essay 
To  hold  their  footing  on  that  tossing  mass 
Of  miserable  life,  making  their  path 
O'er  palpitating  bosoms.     'Tis  in  vain  ! 

The  keen  pang  passes  and  the  satiate  flood 
Shuts  silent  o'er  its  prey. 

The  severed  host 

Stand  gazing  on  each  shore.     The  gulph — the  dead 
Forbid  their  union.     One  sad  throng  is  warned 

To  Russia's  dungeons,  one  with  shivering  haste 

Spread  o'er  the  wild,  through  toil  and  pain  to  hew 

Their  many  roads  to  death.     From  desert  plains, 

From  sacked  and  solitary  villages 

Gaunt  Famine  springs  to  sieze  them;  Winter's  wrath, 

Unresting  day  or  night,  with  blast  and  storm, 

And  one  eternal  magazine  of  frost, 

Smites  the  astonished  victims. 

God  of  Heaven ! 

Warrest  thou  with  France,  that  thus  thine  elements 

Do  fight  against  her  sons  %     Yet  on  they  press, 

Stern,  rigid,  silent — every  bosom  steeled 

By  the  strong  might  of  its  own  misery 

Against  all  sympathy  of  kindred  ties. 

The  brother  on  his  fainting  brother  treads — 

Friend  tears  from  friend  the  garment  and  the  bread — 

That  last,  scant  morsel,  which  his  quivering  lip 


PASSAGE  OF  THE  BERESINA.  245 

Hoards  in  its  death-pang.     Round  the  midnight  fires, 
That  fiercely  through  the  startled  forest  blaze, 
The  dreaming  shadows  gather,  madly  pleased 
To  bask,  and  scorch,  and  perish — with  their  limbs 
Crisped  like  the  martyr's,  and  their  heads  fast  sealed 
To  the  frost-pillow  of  their  fearful  rest. 

Turn  back,  turn  back,  thou  fur-clad  emperor. 
Thus  toward  the  palace  of  the  Thuilleres 
Flying  with  breathless  speed.     Yon  meagre  forms, 
Yon  breathing  skeletons,  with  tattered  robes 
And  bare  and  bleeding  feet,  and  matted  locks, 
Are  these  the  high  and  haughty  troops  of  France, 
The  buoyant  conscripts,  who  from  their  blest  homes 
Went  gaily  at  thy  bidding  ]     When  the  cry 
Of  weeping  Love  demands  her  cherished  ones, 
The  nursed  upon  her  breast — the  idol-gods 
Of  her  deep  worship — wilt  thou  coldy  point 
The  Beresina — the  drear  hosjjital. 

The  frequent  snow-mound  on  the  unsheltered  march, 
Where  the  lost  soldier  sleeps  ! 

O  War!    War!    War! 

Thou  false  baptised,  who  by  thy  vaunted  name 

Of  glory  stealest  o'er  the  ear  of  man 

To  rive  his  bosom  with  thy  thousand  darts. 

Disrobed  of  pomp  and  circumstance,  stand  forth, 

And  show  thy  written  league  with  sin  and  death. 

Yes,  ere  ambition's  heart  is  seared  and  sold, 

And  desolated,  bid  him  mark  thine  end 

And  count  thy  wages. 

The  proud  victor's  plume, 

The  hero's  trophied  fame,  the  warrior's  wreath 

Of  blood-dashed  laurel — what  will  these  avail 

The  spirit  parting  from  material  things  1 

One  slender  leaflet  from  the  tree  of  peace, 

Borne,  dove-like,  o'er  the  waste  and  warring  earth, 

Is  better  passport  at  the  gate  of  Heaven. 


246 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  POET. 


Another  master  of  the  lyre  hath  swept 

His  parting  strain.     Swan-like  and  sweet  it  rose, 

But  sank  unfinished.     And  methought  I  heard 

Its  melody  in  Heaven,  where  harp  and  voice, 

Forever  hymning  the  Eternal  name, 

Blend  without  weariness.     No  more  he  holds, 

Tender  and  sad,  his  night-watch  o'er  the  dead. 

For  he  is  where  the  Spoiler's  icy  foot 

Hath  never  trod,  nor  the  dark  seeds  of  grief 

In  baleful  harvest  sprung.     'Twere  sweet,  indeed, 

A  little  longer  to  have  drawn  his  smile 

Into  the  heart  of  love,  and  seen  him  do, 

With  all  his  graceful  singleness  of  soul, 

A  Saviour's  bidding.     But  be  still,  be  still. 

Ye  who  did  gird  him  up  for  Heaven,  and  walk 

Even  to  its  gates  in  his  blest  company — 

If  he  hath  entered  Jirst,  ivhat  then  ?   he  still  ! 

And  let  the  few,  brief  sands  of  time  roll  on, 

And  keep  your  armour  bright,  and  waiting  stand 

For  his  warm  welcome  to  a  realm  of  bliss. 


247 


AUTUMN. 


Tree  !  why  hast  thou  doffed  thy  mantle  of  green 
For  the  gorgeous  garb  of  an  Indian  queen  1 
With  the  umbered  brown,  and  the  crimson  stain, 
And  the  yellow  fringe  on  its  broidered  train  1 
And  the  autumn  gale  through  its  branches  sighed 
Of  a  long  arrear,  for  the  transient  pride. 

Stream !  why  is  thy  rushing  step  delayed? 

Thy  tuneful  talk  to  the  pebbles  staid  1 

Hath  the  Spoiler  found  thee  who  wrecks  the  plains  1 

Didst  thou  trifle  with  him  till  he  chilled  thy  veins  ? 

But  it  murmured  on  with  a  mournful  tone, 

Till  fetters  of  ice  were  around  it  thrown.  . 

Rose  !  why  art  thou  drooping  thy  beautiful  head  ? 
Hast  thou  bowed  to  the  frost-king's  kiss  of  dread  ? 
When  thou  sawesthis  deeds  in  the  withering  vale, 
Didst  thou,  lingering,  list  to  his  varnished  tale  T 
And  she  answered  not,  but  strove  to  fold 
In  her  bosom  the  blight  of  his  dalliance  bold. 

Yet  ye  still  have  a  voice  to  the  musing  heart, 
Tree,  Stream  and  Rose,  as  ye  sadly  part, 
"  We  are  symbols,  ye  say,  of  the  hasting  doom 
Of  youth,  and  of  health,  and  of  beauty's  bloom, 
When  Disease,  with  a  hectic  flush  doth  glow, 
And  Time  steal  on  with  his  tress  of  snow." 


248 


AUTUMN. 


Is  this  all  1 — is  your  painful  lesson  done  ■? 
And  they  spoke  in  their  bitterness,  every  one, 
"The  soul  that  admits  in  an  evil  hour, 
The  breath  of  vice  to  its  sacred  bower, 
Will  find  its  peace  with  its  glory  die. 
Like  the  fading  hues  of  an  autumn  sky." 


249 


SCENE  AT  ATHENS,  DURING  THE 
REVOLUTION. 


City  of  Cecrops,  there  thou  art  on  high, 

But  not  in  pride,  as  when  the  wondering  world 

Knelt  to  thee  as  a  pupil,  and  the  light 

That  from  thy  mountains  flashed,  fell  on  the  globe, 

As  on  a  thing  opaque.     The  Moslem  draws 

His  leaguring  lines  around  thee,  and  afar 

'Mid  thine  Acropolis,  is  heard  the  sigh 

Of  the  o'erwearied  soldier,  famine-struck, 

Yet  not  despairing.     He,  amid  his  watch. 

Muses  on  Missolonghi.     Even  thy  vines 

Uncultured,  wither,  and  thine  olives  shrink 

From  the  hot  hand  of  war.     No  more  thy  herds 

Roam  o'er  their  pasture,  and  methinks  the  bee 

That  toward  Hymethus  hastens,  sadly  spreads 

A  languid  wing. 

See  yon  attenuate  boy. 
With  his  young  tottering  sister,  who  explore 
Eager  each  close  recess.     Why  glean  they  thus 
Those  scanty  blades  of  herbage?     Do  they  hide. 
And  nourish  carefully  some  tender  lamb, 
Last  of  the  flock?  No !  no !     Their  wasted  brows 
A  stronger  need  bespeak.     And  there  he  goes, 
A  poor  snail-gatherer,  from  whose  eye,  perchance, 
Speaks  forth  the  blood  of  Pericles. 

Butlo! 
The  cry  of  sudden  skirmish,  and  sharp  war, 


250  SCENE  AT  ATHENS. 

Peals  out  at  distance.     The  infuriate  Turks 

Rush  to  the  guarded  wall,  and,  vaunting,  rear  ■ 

The  haughty  crescent  o'er  the  cross  of  Christ.  * 

High  Heaven  hath  mercy.     The  brief  battle  swells 

Back  to  the  plain  again,  and  sweeping  on. 

Like  the  spent  whirlwind,  sinks.     The  courser's  tramp, 

And  clash  of  ataghan,  and  trumpet  blast, 

And  the  fierce  shout  of  man's  wild  passions  die 

Upon  the  tranquil  air.     But  there  are  strewn 

Sad  witnesses  around  :  the  shivered  sword, 

The  frequent  blood-pool,  and  the  severed  limb,  j 

While  here  and  there  a  gorgeous  Mussulman 

Sleeps  in  his  pomp  of  armour.     The  slain  Greeks 

Do  lie  with  faces  heavenward,  as  becomes 

Sons  of  Miltiades.     Methinks  the  frown 

That  knits  their  brows,  tells  how  with  Death  did  strive 

The  thought  of  Athens,  and  their  country's  fate. 

Would  this  were  all ! 

But  there  are  dens  and  caves, 
And  rugged  mountain-paths,  where  those  have  fallen  . 

Whom  love  would  die  to  save  ;  and  their  soft  hands  - 

Did  woo  the  sabre's  edge,  and  press  it  close,  I 

As  a  long-parted  friend. 

Ah  !  might  I  turn 
Forever  from  such  scenes.     But  in  my  dreams, 
W'hen  woe  doth  tint  them,  to  this  hour  I  see 
A  beauteous  form,  which  on  the  encrimsoned  turf 
Was  smitten  down,  and  close  those  polished  arms 
Bound  to  the  marble  breast,  in  death's  embrace, 
A  young,  unconscious  babe. 

The  ruddy  boy 
Seemed  full  of  health,  and  light  his  sportive  hand 
'Mid  his  fair  mother's  glossy  tresses  roved. 
While  ills  bright  lip,  not  yet  to  language  trained,  j 

Solicited  regard.     But  when  no  sound  j 

Assured  the  nursling,  and  an  icebolt  seemed  • 

From  that  dead  breast  to  shoot  into  his  soul, 


SCENE  AT  ATHENS. 

He  raised  his  cherub  head,  with  such  a  cry 
Of  horror,  as  I  deemed  no  infant  heart 
Could  utter  or  conceive. 

And  they  who  oft 
Stood  with  the  unblenching  brave,  when  the  thick  air 
Steamed  like  a  sulphur-furnace,  and  the  earth 
Reeked  with  fresh  blood,  and  thousand  parting  souls 
Sent  forth  the  fearful  groan,  did  say  that  naught 
'Mid  all  the  appalling  ministry  of  war 
Had  ever  moved  them  like  that  wailing  babe. 


251 


252 


ON  SEEING  THE  DEAF,  DUMB  AND  BLIND 
GIRL,  SITTING  FOR  HER  PORTRAIT. 


Heaven  guide  thee  artist  I     Tiiough  thy  skill 
Can  make  the  enthusiast's  passion  tear, 

And  catch  expression's  faintest  thrill, 

What  power  shall  prompt  thy  pencil  here? 

She  hath  no  eye — God  quenched  its  beam, 
No  ear — though  thunder's  trump  be  blown. 

No  speech — her  spirit's  voiceless  stream 
Flows  dark,  unfathomed  and  unknown. 

Yet  hath  she  joys,  though  none  may  know  ^ 

Their  germ,  their  impulse,  or  their  power. 

And  oft  her  kindling  features  glow 
In  meditation's  lonely  hour, 

Or  when  unfoldinor  blossoms  breathe 

Their  fragrance  'neath  a  vernal  sky, 
Or  feeling  weaves  its  wild-flower  wreath 

As  some  remembered  friend  draws  nigh, 

Then  doth  the  heart  its  lore  reveal 

Though  lip  and  eye  are  sealed  the  while, 

And  then  do  wildering  graces  steal 
To  paint  their  language  on  her  smile. 

For  still  the  undying  soul  may  teach 
Without  a  glance,  a  to-ne,  a  sigh. 


DEAF,  DUMB  AND  BLIND  GIRL.  253 

And  well  canst  thou  its  mirrored  speech 
Interpret  to  tiie  wondering  eye. 

What  though  her  locked  and  guarded  mind 

Doth  foil  philosophy  divine, 
Till  even  reason  fails  to  find 

A  clue  to  that  untravelled  shrine. 

Yet  may  thine  art  with  victor  sway 

Win  laurels  from  this  desert  wild, 
And  to  a  future  age  pourtray 

Mysterious  Nature's  hermit  child. 


w 


254 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MISS  HANNAH  ADAMS. 


She  was  the  author  of  a  "  View  of  Religious  Opinions,"  "  History  of  the 
Jews,"  and  other  works.  She  died,  respected  and  beloved,  at  the  age  of 
seventy-six;  and  was  the  first  who  was  buried  in  the  Mount  Auburn 
Cemetery,  in  Boston. 


Gentle  and  true  of  heart !     I  see  thee  still, 

Abstractly  bending  o'er  the  storied  tome, 

While  the  deep  lines  of  meditation  steal, 

Unfrowning,  o'er  thy  brow.     I  see  thee  still. 

Thine  eye  upraised  at  friendship's  sacred  smile. 

Pouring  the  heart's  warm  treasures  freely  forth, 

In  guileless  confidence.     Methinks  I  hear 

That  eloquence,  which  sometimes  bore  thy  soul 

High  o'er  its  prison-house  of  timid  thought. 

And  round  the  ancient  people  of  thy  God, 

And  on  the  hill  of  Zion,  joyed  to  bind 

Its  choicest  wreath.     Thy  stainless  life  was  laid 

A  gift  on  virtue's  altar,  and  thy  mind. 

Commingling  wisdom  with  humility, 

Passed  on  its  sheltered  pilgrimage  in  peace. 

Lonely — but  not  forgot.     When  thou  didst  mourn 

One  generation  of  thy  friends  laid  low, 

Another  came.     Most  fair  and  youthful  forms. 

Such  as  man's  love  doth  worship,  in  the  hour 

Of  its  idolatry,  did  turn  aside 

To  seat  them  at  thy  feet,  and  strew  thy  home 

With  offerings  of  fresh  flowers.     'Twas  sweet  to  see 

Beauty,  and  grace,  and  wealth,  such  tribute  pay 


ON  THE  DEATH  OP  MISS  HANNAH  ADAMS.   255 

At  wisdom's  lowly  shrine.     Yes,  they  who  moved 

On  the  high  places  of  the  earth,  came  down 

To  do  thee  honour,  and  to  comfort  thee 

With  an  untiring  ardour.     Say  no  more 

That  humble  merit,  fashionless  and  poor. 

Hath  none  to  lift  it  from  its  upas-shade. 

And  guard  its  welfare  with  unswerving  zeal 
Through  the  long  vale  of  helplessness  and  age. 
It  is  not  so.     Thy  grateful  shade  responds — 
It  is  not  so. 

Farewell.     Thy  rest  shall  be 
In  such  companionship  as  thou  hast  loved, 
Even  from  thy  being's  dawn  ;  pure-breathing  plants, 
Soft  melodies  of  waters  and  of  trees. 
The  brightest,  holiest  charms  of  earth  and  sky ; 
Nor  yet  unchronicled,  or  unbeloved 
Of  faithful  memory,  shall  be  thy  sleep. 
Meek  worshipper  of  nature  and  of  God. 


256 


DEATH  OF  A  MISSIONARY. 

Drowned  at  a  ford  of  the  Kaskaskia,  in  the  state  of  Illinois. 

Cold  sweep  the  waters  o'er  thee.     Thou  hast  found, 

'Mid  all  the  ardour  of  thy  youthful  zeal 

And  self-devotion  to  thy  Master's  cause, 

An  unexpected  bed.     The  ice-swoln  tides 

Of  the  Kaskaskia  shall  no  more  resound 

To  the  wild  struggles  of  thy  failing  steed 

In  that  deep  plunge  which  gave  thy  soul  to  God. 

Say,  'mid  thy  journeyings  o'er  the  snow-clad  waste 

Of  yon  lone  prairie,  on  that  fearful  day, 

When  death  was  by  thy  side,  where  dwelt  thy  thought? 

Upon  thy  angel  mission,  or  the  scenes 

Of  thy  loved  home,  with  all  its  sheltering  trees 

And  tuneful  sound  of  waters  ? 

Didst  thou  hope, 

When  Heaven's  pure  seed  should  blossom  in  the  soil 

Of  the  far  Illinois,  again  to  sit 

Around  that  fire-side  and  recount  thy  toils. 

And  mingle  prayers  with  those  who  fondly  nursed 

Thy  tender  infancy  1     Now  there  are  tears 

In  that  abode,  whene'er  thy  cherished  name 

Breaks  from  the  trembling  lip.     Oh  !  ye  who  mourn 

With  hoary  temples  o'er  the  smitten  son. 

Slain  in  his  Saviour's  service,  know  that  pain 

Shall  never  vex  him  more.     Peril  and  change, 

And  winter's  blast,  and  summer's  sultry  ray, 


DEATH  OF  A  MISSIONARY.  257 

And  sinful  snare,  what  are  they  now  to  him 

But  dim-remembered  names.     If 'twere  so  sweet 

To  have  a  son  on  earth,  where  every  ill 

Might  point  a  sword  against  his  heart,  and  pierce 

Your  own  through  his,  are  ye  not  doubly  blest 

To  have  a  son  in  Heaven  ? 


w  * 


258 


THE  LITTLE  HAND. 


Thou  wak'st,  my  baby  boy,  from  sleep, 

And  through  its  silken  fringe 
Thine  eye,  like  violet,  pure  and  deep, 

Gleams  forth  with  azure  tinge. 

With  what  a  smile  of  gladness  meek 

Thy  radiant  brow  is  drest, 
While  fondly  to  a  mother's  cheek 

Thy  lip  and  hand  are  prest. 

That  little  hand!  what  prescient  wit 

Its  history  may  discern, 
When  time  its  tiny  bones  hath  knit 

With  manhood's  sinews  stern  ] 

The  artist's  pencil  shall  it  guide  1 
Or  spread  the  adventurous  sail  1 

Or  guide  the  plough  with  rustic  pride, 
And  ply  the  sounding  flail  ? 

Though  music's  labyrinthine  maze, 

With  dexterous  ardour  rove. 
And  weave  those  tender,  tuneful  lays 

That  beauty  wins  from  love  ? 

Old  Coke's  or  Blackstone's  mighty  tome. 

With  patient  toil  turn  o'er  ? 
Or  trim  the  lamp  in  classic  dome. 

Till  midnight's  watch  be  o'er  1 


THE  LITTLE  HAND.  259 

Well  skilled  the  pulse  of  sickness  press  ? 

Or  such  high  honour  gain, 
As  o'er  the  pulpit  raised  to  bless 

A  pious,  listening  train  ? 

Say,  shall  it  find  the  cherished  grasp 

Of  friendship's  fervour  cold  '? 
Or  shuddering  feel  the  envenomed  clasp 

Of  treachery's  serpent-fold  ? 

Yet  oh  !  may  that  Almighty  Friend, 

From  whom  existence  came, 
That  dear  and  powerless  hand  defend 

From  deeds  of  guilt  and  shame. 

Grant  it  to  dry  the  tear  of  woe. 

Bold  folly's  course  restrain. 
The  alms  of  sympathy  bestow, 

The  righteous  cause  maintain  ; 

Write  wisdom  on  the  wing  of  time. 

Even  'mid  the  morn  of  youth, 
And  with  benevolence  sublime. 

Dispense  the  light  of  truth, 

Discharge  a  just,  an  useful  part 

Through  life's  uncertain  maze. 
Till,  coupled  with  an  angel's  heart. 

It  strike  the  lyre  of  praise. 


260 


I 


HEBREW  DIRGE. 


'Mourn  for  the  living,  and  not  for  the  dead." 

Hebrew  Dirge. 


I  SAW  ail  infant,  marble  cold, 

Borne  from  the  pillowing  breast, 
And  in  the  shroiui's  embracing  fold 

Laid  down  to  dreamless  rest; 
And  moved  with  bitterness  I  sighed, 

Not  for  the  babe  that  slept. 
But  for  the  mother  at  its  side, 

Whose  soul  in  anguish  wept. 

They  bare  a  coffin  to  its  place, 

I  asked  them  who  was  there  1 
And  they  replied  "  a  form  of  grace, 

The  fairest  of  the  fair." 
But  for  that  blest  one  do  ye  moan, 

Whose  angel-wing  is  spread  *? 
No,  for  the  lover  pale  and  lone. 

His  heart  is  with  the  dead. 

I  wandered  to  a  new-made  grave, 

And  there  a  matron  lay. 
The  love  of  Him  who  died  to  save, 

Had  been  her  spirit's  stay. 
Yet  sobs  burst  forth  of  torturing  pain  ; 

Wail  ye  for  her  who  died  ? 


HEBREW  DIRGE.  261 


No,  for  that  timid,  infant  train 
Who  roam  without  a  guide. 


to' 


I  murmur  not  for  those  who  die, 

Who  rise  to  glory's  sphere, 
I  deem  the  tenants  of  the  sky 

Need  not  our  mortal  tear, 
Our  woe  seems  arrogant  and  vain, 

Perchance  it  moves  their  scorn. 
As  if  the  slave  beneath  his  chain, 

Deplored  the  princely  born. 

We  live  to  meet  a  thousand  foes, 

We  shrink  with  bleedinof  breast. 
Why  shall  we  weakly  mourn  for  those 

Who  dwell  in  perfect  rest  ? 
Bound  for  a  few  sad,  fleeting  years 

A  thorn-clad  path  to  tread, 
Oh !  for  the  living  spare  those  tears 

Ye  lavish  on  the  dead. 


262 


ON  LAYING  THE  CORNER-STONE  OF  THE 

MONUMENT  TO  THE   MOTHER 

OF  WASHINGTON. 


Long  hast  thou  slept  unnoted.     Nature  stole 
In  her  soft  ministry  around  thy  hed, 
Spreading  her  vernal  tissue,  violet-gemmed, 
And  pearled  with  dews. 

She  hade  bright  Summer  bring 
Gifts  of  frankincense,  vs?ith  sweet  song  of  birds, 
And  Autumn  cast  his  reaper's  coronet 
Down  at  thy  feet,  and  stormy  Winter  speak 
Sternly  of  man's  neglect. 

But  now  we  come 
To  do  thee  homao-e — mother  of  our  chief! 
Fit  homage — such  as  honoureth  him  who  pays. 

Methinks  we  see  thee — as  in  olden  time — 
Simple  in  garb — majestic  and  serene. 
Unmoved  by  pomp  or  circumstance — in  truth 
Inflexible,  and  with  a  Spartan  zeal 
Repressing  vice,  and  making  folly  grave. 
Thou  didst  not  deem  it  woman's  part  to  waste 
Life  in  inglorious  sloth — to  sport  awhile 
Amid  the  flowers,  or  on  the  summer  wave, 
There  fleet,  like  the  ephemeron,  away, 
Building  no  temple  in  her  children's  hearts, 
Save  to  the  vanity  and  pride  of  life 
Which  she  had  worshipped. 


MOTHER  OF  WASHINGTON.  263 

For  the  might  that  clothed 
The  "  Pater  Patriae,"  for  the  glorious  deeds 
That  make  Mount  Vernon's  tomb  a  Mecca  shrine 
For  all  the  earth,  what  thanks  to  thee  are  due, 
Who,  'mid  his  elements  of  being,  wrought, 
We  know  not — Heaven  can  tell. 

Rise,  sculptured  pile ! 
And  show  a  race  unborn,  who  rests  below, 
And  say  to  mothers  what  a  holy  charge 
Is  theirs — with  what  a  kingly  power  their  love 
Might  rule  the  fountains  of  the  new-born  mind. 
Warn  them  to  wake  at  early  dawn — and  sow 
Good  seed,  before  the  world  hath  sown  her  tares; 
Nor  in  their  toil  decline — that  angel-bands 
May  put  the  sickle  in  and  reap  for  God, 
And  gather  to  his  garner. 

Ye,  who  stand, 
With  thrilling  breast,  to  view  her  trophied  praise, 
Who  nobly  reared  Virginia's  godlike  chief — 
Ye,  whose  last  thought  upon  your  nightly  couch, 
Whose  Jirst  at  waking,  is  your  cradled  son, 
What  though  no  high  ambition  prompts  to  rear 
A  second  Washington ;  or  leave  your  name 
Wrought  out  in  marble  with  a  nation's  tears 
Of  deathless  gratitude — yet  may  you  raise 
A  monument  above  the  stars — a  soul 
Led  by  your  teachings,  and  your  prayers  to  God. 


264 


THE  DYING  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 


I  HEARD  the  voice  of  prayer — a  mother's  prayer — 
A  dying  mother,  for  her  ouly  son. 

Young  was  his  brow,  and  fair. 
Her  hand  was  on  his  head, 
Her  words  of  love  were  said, 

Her  work  was  done. 

And  there  were  other  voices  near  her  bed — 
Sweet,  bird-like  voices — for  their  mother  dear 

Asking,  with  mournful  tear. 
Ah,  by  whose  hand  shall  those  sad  tears  be  dried. 
When  one  brief  hour  is  fled. 
And  her's  shall  pulseless  rest,  low  with  the  silent  dead. 

Yes,  there  was  Death's  dark  valley  drear  and  cold ! 
And  the  hoarse  dash  of  Jordan's  swelling  wave, 
Alone  she  treads  :  is  there  no  earthly  hold. 
No  friend — no  helper — no  strong  arm  to  save  ? 
Down  to  the  fearful  grave. 
In  the  firm  courage  of  a  faith  serene, 
Alone  she  prest — 
And  as  she  drew  the  chord 
That  bound  her  to  the  Lord 
More  closely  round  her  breast, 
The  white  wing  of  the  waiting  angel  spread 
More  palpably,  and  earth's  bright  things  grew  pale. 
Even  fond  aifection's  wail 
Seemed  like  the  far-off  sigh  of  spring's  forgotten  gale, 


THE  DYING  mother's  PRAYER.       265 

And  so  the  mother's  prayer, 
So  often  breathed  above, 
In  agonizing-  love, 
Rose  high  in  praise  of  God's  protecting  care. 
Meek  on  his  arm  her  infant  charge  she  laidj 
And,  with  a  trusting  eye, 
Of  christian  constancy. 
Confiding  in  her  blest  Redeemer's  aid, 

She  taught  the  weeping  band 
Who  round  her  couch  of  pain  did  stand, 

How  a  weak  woman's  hand. 
Fettered  with  sorrow  and  with  sin, 
Might  from  the  King  of  Terror's  win 
The  victory. 


266 


I 


DREAM  OF  THE  DEAD. 


Sleep  brought  the  dead  to  me.     Their  brows  were  kind, 
And  their  tones  tender,  and,  as  erst  they  blent 
Their  sympathies  with  each  familiar  scene. 
It  was  my  earthliness  that  robed  them  still 
In  their  material  vestments,  for  they  seemed 
Not  yet  to  have  put  their  glorious  garments  on. 
Methought,  'twere  better  thus  to  dwell  with  them, 
Than  with  the  living. 

'Twas  a  chosen  friend. 
Beloved  in  school-days'  happiness,  who  came. 
And  put  her  arm  through  mine,  and  meekly  walked. 
As  she  was  wont,  where'er  I  willed  to  lead, 
To  shady  grove  or  river's  sounding  shore, 
Or  dizzy  cliff,  to  gaze  enthralled  below 
On  wide-spread  landscape  and  diminished  throng. 
One,  too,  was  there,  o'er  whose  departing  steps 
Night's  cloud  hung  heavy  ere  she  found  the  tomb ; 
One,  to  whose  ear  no  infant  lip,  save  mine, 
£'er  breathed  the  name  of  mother. 

In  her  hour 
Of  conflict  with  the  spoiler,  that  fond  word 
Fell  with  my  tears  upon  her  brow  in  vain — 
She  heard  not,  heeded  not.     But  now  she  flew. 
Upon  the  wing  of  dreams,  to  my'embrace. 
Full  of  fresh  life,  and  in  that  beauty  clad 
Which  charmed  my  earliest  love.     Speak,  silent  shade  ! 
Speak  to  thy  child !  But  with  capricious  haste 
Sleep  turned  the  tablet,  and  another  came, 


DllEAM  OP  THE  DEAD.  267 

A  Stranger-matron,  sicklied  o'er  and  pale, 
And  mournful  for  my  vanished  guide  I  sought. 

Then,  many  a  group,  in  earnest  converse  flocked, 
Upon  whose  lips  I  knew  the  burial-clay 
Lay  deep,  for  I  had  heard  its  hollow  sound, 
In  hoarse  reverberation,  "  dust  to  dust  /" 

They  put  a  fair,  young  infant  in  my  arms, 
And  that  was  of  the  dead.     Yet  still  it  seemed 
Like  other  infants.     First  with  fear  it  shrank, 
And  then  in  changeful  gladness  smiled,  and  spread 
Its  little  hands  in  sportive  laughter  forth. 
So  I  awoke,  and  then  those  gentle  forms 
Of  faithful  friendship  and  maternal  love 
Did  flit  away,  and  life,  with  all  its  cares, 
Stood  forth  in  strong  reality. 

Sweet  dream ! 
And  solemn,  let  me  bear  thee  in  my  soul 
Throughout  the  live-long  day,  to  subjugate 
My  earth-born  hope.     I  bow  me  at  your  names, 
Sinless  and  passionless  and  pallid  train ! 
The  seal  of  truth  is  on  your  breasts,  ye  dead  ! 
Ye  may  not  swerve,  nor  from  your  vows  recede, 
Nor  of  your  faith  make  shipwreck.     Scarce  a  point 
Divides  you  from  us,  though  we  fondly  look 
Through  a  long  vista  of  imagined  years, 
And  in  the  dimness  of  far  distance,  seek 
To  hide  that  tomh^  whose  cruml ling  verge  ive  tread 


268 


TO  BEREAVED  PARENTS'. 


Tender  guides,  in  sorrow  weeping, 
O'er  your  first-born's  smitten  bloom, 

Or  fond  memory's  vigil  keeping 
Where  the  fresh  turf  marks  her  tomb. 

Ye  no  more  shall  see  her  bearing 
Pangs  that  woke  the  dove-like  moan, 

Still  for  your  affliction  caring, 
Though  forgetful  of  her  own. 

Ere  the  bitter  cup  she  tasted,' 

Which  the  hand  of  care  doth  bring — 

Ere  the  glittering  pearls  were  wasted. 
From  glad  childhood's  fairy  string, 

Ere  one  chain  of  hope  had  rusted — 
Ere  one  wreath  of  joy  was  dead — ■ 

To  the  Saviour,  whom  she  trusted. 
Strong  in  faith,  her  spirit  fled. 

Gone — where  no  dark  sin  is  cherished. 
Where  nor  woes,  nor  fears  invade. 

Gone — ere  youth's  first  flower  had  perished. 
To  a  youth  that  ne'er  can  fade. 


269 


THE  SEA. 


Emblem  of  everlasting  power,  T  come 

Into  thy  presence,  as  an  awe-struck  child 

Before  its  teacher.     Spread  thy  boundless  patre, 

And  I  will  ponder  o'er  its  characters, 

As  erst  the  pleased  disciple  sought  the  lore 

Of  Socrates  or  Plato.     Yon  old  rock 

Hath  heard  thy  voice  for  ages,  and  grown  grey 

Beneath  thy  smitings,  and  thy  wrathful  tide 

Even  now  is  thundering  'neath  its  caverned  base. 

Methinks  it  trerableth  at  the  stern  rebuke — 

Is  it  not  so] 

Speak  gently,  mighty  sea ! 
I  would  not  know  the  terrors  of  thine  ire 
That  vex  the  gasping  mariner,  and  bid 
The  wrecking  argosy  to  leave  no  trace 
Or  bubble  where  it  perished.     Man's  weak  voice, 
Though  wildly  lifted  in  its  proudest  strength 
With  all  its  compass— all  its  voluraed  sound, 
Is  mockery  to  thee.     Earth  speaks  of  him — 
Her  levelled  mountains — and  her  cultured  vales, 
Town,  tower  and  temple,  and  triumphal  arch. 
All  speak  of  him,  and  moulder  while  they  speak. 

But  of  whose  architecture  and  design 
Tell  thine  eternal  fountains,  when  they  rise 
To  combat  with  the  cloud,  and  when  they  fall? 
Of  whose  strong  culture  tell  thy  sunless  plants 
And  groves  and  gardens,  which  no  mortal  eye 
Hath  seen  and  lived  1 

X* 


270  THE  SEA. 

What  chisel's  art  hath  wrought 
Those  coral  monuments,  and  tombs  of  pearl, 
Where  sleeps  the  sea-boy  'mid  a  pomp  that  earth 
Ne'er  showed  her  buried  kings  1 

Whose  science  stretched 
The  simplest  line  to  curb  thy  monstrous  tide, 
And  graving  ^^  Hitherto'' *  upon  the  sand, 
Bade  thy  mad  surge  respect  it? 

From  whose  loom 
Come  forth  thy  drapery,  that  ne'er  waxeth  old, 
Norblancheth  'neath  stern  Winter's  direst  frost? 

Who  hath  thy  keys,  thou  deep  ?     Who  taketh  note 
Of  all  thy  wealth?     Who  numbereth  the  host 
That  find  their  rest  with  thee  ?     What  eye  doth  scan 
Thy  secret  annal,  from  creation  locked 
Close  in  those  dark,  unfathomable  cells — 
Which  he  who  visiteth,  hath  ne'er  returned 
Among  the  living  ? 

Sfill  but  one  reply  ? 
Do  all  thine  echoing  depths  and  crested  waves 
Make  the  same  answer? — of  that  One  Bread  Name — 
Which  he,  who  deepest  plants  within  his  heart, 
Is  wisest,  though  the  world  may  call  him  fool. 

Therefore,  I  come  a  listener  to  thy  lore 
And  bow  me  at  thy  side,  and  lave  my  brow 
In  thy  cool  billow,  if,  perchance,  my  soul, 
That  fleeting  wanderer  on  the  shore  of  time. 
May,  by  thy  voice  instructed,  learn  of  God. 


271 


THE  SECOND  BIRTH-DAY. 

Thou  dost  not  dream,  my  little  one, 

How  great  the  change  must  be. 
These  two  years,  since  the  morning  sun 

First  shed  his  beams  on  thee  ; 
Thy  little  hands  did  helpless  fall, 

As  with  a  stranger's  fear. 
And  a  faint,  wailing  cry,  was  all 

That  met  thy  mother's  ear. 

But  now,  the  dictates  of  thy  will 

Thine  active  feet  obey, 
And  pleased  thy  busy  fingers  still 

Among  thy  playthings  stray, 
And  thy  full  eyes  delighted  rove 

The  pictured  page  along, 
And,  lisping  to  the  heart  of  love. 

Thy  thousand  wishes  throng. 

Fair  boy !  the  wanderings  of  thy  way, 

It  is  not  mine  to  trace. 
Through  buoyant  youth's  exulting  day, 

Or  manhood's  bolder  race. 
What  discipline  thy  heart  may  need, 

What  clouds  may  veil  thy  sun. 
The  Eye  of  God,  alone  can  read, 

Jind  let  his  will  be  done. 

Yet  might  a  mother's  prayer  of  love 
Thy  destiny  control, 


272  THE  SECOND  BIRTH-DAY. 

Those  boasted  gifts,  that  often  prove 

The  ruin  of  the  soul, 
Beauty  and  fortune,  wit  and  fame, 

For  thee  it  would  not  crave, 
But  tearful  urge  a  fervent  claim 

To  joys  beyond  the  grave. 

Oh !  be  thy  wealth  an  upright  heart, 

Thy  strength  the  sufferer's  stay, 
Thine  early  choice,  that  better  part, 

Which  cannot  fade  away; 
Thy  zeal  for  Christ  a  quenchless  fire, 

Thy  friends  the  men  of  peace, 
Thy  heritage  an  angel's  lyre, 

When  earthly  changes  cease. 


I 


273 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  PENITENCE. 

Aye,  looh  to  Heaven.     Earth  seems  to  lend 
Refuge  nor  ray  thy  steps  to  guide, 

Bids  pity  with  suspicion  blend. 
And  slander  check  compassion's  tide. 

We  will  not  ask  what  thorn  hath  found 

Admittance  to  thy  bosom  fair, 
If  love  hath  dealt  a  traitor's  wound. 

Or  hopeless  folly  wake  despair : 

We  only  say,  that  sinless  clime. 

To  which  is  raised  thy  streaming  eye. 

Hath  pardon  for  the  deepest  crime, 
Though  erring  man  the  boon  deny  : 

We  only  say,  the  prayerful  breast. 
The  gushing  tear  of  contrite  pain. 

Have  power  to  ope  that  portal  blest. 
Where  vaunting  pride  doth  toil  in  vain. 


274 


THE  ARK  AND  DOVE. 


"Tell  me  a  story— please,'^  my  little  girl 
Lisped  from  her  cradle.     So  I  bent  me  down 
And  told  her  how  it  rained,  and  rained,  and  rained, 
Till  all  the  flowers  were  covered  ;  and  the  trees 
Hid  their  tall  heads,  and  where  the  houses  stood. 
And  people  dwelt,  a  fearful  deluge  rolled  ; 
Because  the  world  was  wicked,  and  refused 
To  heed  the  words  of  God.     But  one  good  man. 
Who  long  had  warned  the  wicked  to  repent. 
Obey  and  live,  taught  by  the  voice  of  Heaven, 
Had  built  an  Ark,  and  thither,  with  his  wife 
And  children,  turned  for  safety.     Two  and  two, 
Of  beasts  and  birds,  and  creeping  things  he  took, 
With  food  for  all,  and  when  the  tempest  roared, 
And  the  great  fountains  of  the  sky  poured  out 
A  ceaseless  flood,  till  all  beside  were  drowned. 
They  in  their  quiet  vessel  dwelt  secure. 
And  so  the  mighty  waters  bare  them  up, 
And  o'er  the  bosom  of  the  deep  they  sailed 
For  many  days.     But  then  a  gentle  dove 
'Scaped  from  the  casement  of  the  Ark,  and  spread 
Her  lonely  pinion  o'er  that  boundless  wave. 
All,  all  was  desolation.     Chirping  nest, 
Nor  face  of  man,  nor  living  thing  she  saw, 
For  all  the  people  of  the  earth  were  drowned. 
Because  of  disobedience.     Nought  she  spied 
Save  wide,  dark  waters,  and  a  frowning  sky, 
Nor  found  her  weary  foot  a  place  of  rest. 


THE  ARK  AND  DOVE.  275 

So,  with  a  leaf  of  olive  in  her  mouth, 

Sole  fruit  of  her  drear  voyage,  which,  perchance, 

Upon  some  wrecking  billow  floated  by, 

With  drooping  wing  the  peaceful  Ark  she  sought. 

The  righteous  man  that  wandering  dove  received. 

And  to  her  mate  restored,  who,  with  sad  moans, 

Had  wondered  at  her  absence. 

Then  I  looked 
Upon  the  child,  to  see  if  her  young  thought 
Wearied  with  following  mine.     But  her  blue  eye 
Was  a  glad  listener,  and  the  eager  breath 
Of  pleased  attention  curled  her  parted  lip. 
And  so  I  told  her  how  the  waters  dried. 
And  the  green  branches  Avaved,  and  the  sweet  buds 
Came  up  in  loveliness,  and  that  meek  dove 
Went  forth  to  build  her  nest,  while  thousand  birds 
Awoke  their  songs  of  praise,  and  the  tired  Ark 
Upon  the  breezy  breast  of  Ararat 
Reposed,  and  Noah",  with  glad  spirit,  reared 
An  altar  to  his  God. 

Since,  many  a  time, 
When  to  her  rest,  ere  evening's  earliest  star. 
That  little  one  is  laid,  with  earnest  tone, 
And  pure  cheek  prest  to  mine,  she  fondly  asks 
"  The  Ark  and  Dove." 

Mothers  can  tell  how  oft 
In  the  heart's  eloquence,  the  prayer  goes  up 
From  a  sealed  lip,  and  tenderly  hath  blent 
With  the  warm  teaching  of  the  sacred  tale 
A  voiceless  wish,  that  when  that  timid  soul. 
New  in  the  rosy  mesh  of  infancy. 
Fast  bound,  shall  dare  the  billows  of  the  world, 
Like  that  exploring  Dove,  and  find  no  rest, 
A  pierced,  a  pitying,  a  redeeming  Hand 
May  gently  guide  it  to.the  Ark  of  peace. 


276 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT, 


Magician  of  old  Scotia's  clime, 
The  sweet,  the  powerful,  the  sublime. 
Whose  lyre  could  rule  even  wrinkled  care, 
And  stir  the  reverie  of  Despair, 
Who  shall  its  broken  strings  repair  1 
Who  wake  the  lay,  so  high  resounding 
With  clash  of  lance  and  war-horse  bounding, 
And  bannered  host,  with  trumpet  shrieking, 
And  battle-field,  in  carnage  reeking  1 
Who  touch  with  cadence,  soft  and  clear, 
The  minstrel  song  to  lady's  ear, 
While  the  young  moonbeam  faintly  throws 
Its  silver  light  o'er  fair  Melrose. 

Then  haughty  Marmion's  fitful  strife, 
The  canvas  glowing  into  life. 
The  gliding  bark  from  hallowed  shore, 
That  Hilda's  cloistered  maidens  bore, 
The  dungeon  vault,  the  stifled  wail. 
The  sightless  judge,  the  victim  pale, 
King  James,  amid  the  festive  throng. 
The  wily  Lady  Heron's  song. 
The  marshalled  field,  the  stirring  drum, 
The  smoke-wrapped  hosts,  that  rushing  come, 
The  fallen  knight's  forsaken  sigh, 
His  reinless  war-steed  sweeping  by— 
Thy  mighty  strain  the  palm  hath  won 
From  earthquake-echoing  Marathon, 


SIK  WALTER  SCOTT.  277 

And  flaming  Ilion's  horrors  yield 
To  pictured  Flodden's  fatal  field. 

Hush!  'tis  old  Alan's  plaintive  lay, 
That  faithful  harper,  sad  and  gray, 
Hark!  to  black  Roderick's  boastful  song, 
That  rolls  the  trosach-glens  along, 
And  lo  !  with  proud,  unbending  frame. 
Comes  Douglas  forth,  with  Malcolm  Graeme, 
While  she,  by  whose  light  footstep  prest. 
The  uncrushed  harebell  rears  its  breast. 
With  brow  averted,  blushing,  hears 
A  father's  praise  to  lover's  ears. 

The  spell  is  broke,  the  illusion  fled, 
And  he,  whose  strong,  enchanting  wand 
Made  the  rude  mountains  of  his  land, 
The  tiny  lake,  the  tangled  dell, 
And  outlaw's  cave,  and  hermit's  cell, 
A  classic  haunt,  a  Mecca  shrine, 
To  pilgrim  throngs,  a  Palestine, 

Is  with  the  dead. 


278 


THE  NINETIETH  BIRTH-DAY. 


How  seems  the  wide  expanse,  respected  sage, 
The  broad  horizon  of  life's  troubled  sky'? 

The  lengthened  course  from  infancy  to  age. 

How  gleams  its  chart  on  Wisdom's  pausing  eye  ? 

Thou,  who  didst  see  our  infant  country  start 
To  giant  strife  from  cradle  sleep,  serene. 

How  strikes  that  drama  on  the  heaven-taught  heart 
That  calmly  weighs  the  actor  and  the  scene  ? 

How  seem  the  gaudes  that  tempt  ambition's  trust  ? 

The  hero's  pomp,  the  banner  proud  unfurled  1 
The  sculptured  trophy  o'er  the  nameless  dust? 

The  insatiate  tear,  that  scorns  a  conquered  world  1 

Those  boasted  gifts  that  kindle  passion's  power 

To  fitful  fires  of  momentary  ray  1 
Those  dreaded  woes,  that  wake  at  midnight-hour 

The  prayer — "  Oh  father  !  take  this  cup  away.'''' 

How  seem  they  all  %     Forgive  the  intrusive  strain. 
We,  fleeting  emmets,  withering  ere  our  prime, 

Would  fain  one  deep,  ennobling  vision  gain. 
Through  thy  majestic  telescope  of  time. 

Those,  who  with  thee  the  race  of  life  begun, 
The  fair,  the  strong,  the  exquisitely  blest. 


THE  NINETIETH  BIRTH-DAY.  279 

Have  faded  from  thy  presence,  one  by  one, 
And  sunk,  o'erwearied,  to  an  earlier  rest. 

Alone,  sublime,  and  tending  toward  the  sky  ! 

Thus  towers  Mont  Blanc  above  the  hoary  train, 
Wins  the  first  smile  of  day's  refulgent  eye, 

And  latest  throws  its  radiance  o'er  the  plain. 


280 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  ADAM  CLARKE. 


Know  ye  a  prince  hath  fallen  1     They  who  sit 
On  gilded  throne,  with  ruhied  diadem, 
Caparisoned  and  guarded  round,  till  death 
Doth  stretch  them  'neath  some  gorgeous  canopy, 
Yet  leave  no  foot-prints  in  the  realm  of  mind — 
Call  them  not  kings — they  are  but  crowned  men. 
Know  ye  a  prince  hath  fallen  1 

Nature  gave 
The  signet  of  her  royalty,  and  years 
Of  mighty  labour  won  that  sceptred  power 
Of  knowledge,  which  from  unborn  ages  claims 
Homage  and  empire,  such  as  time's  keen  tooth 
May  never  waste.     Yea, — and  the  grace  of  God 
So  witnessed  with  his  spirit,  so  impelled 
To  deeds  of  christian  love,  that  there  is  reared 
A  monument  for  him,  which  hath  no  dread 
Of  that  fierce  tlame  which  wrecks  the  solid  earth. 

I  see  him  'raid  the  Shetlands,  spreading  forth 
The  riches  of  the  Gospel — kneeling  down 
To  light  its  lamp  in  every  darkened  hut : — 
Not  in  the  armour  of  proud  learning  braced. 
But  with  a  towel  girded — as  to  wash 
The  feet  of  those  whom  earthly  princes  scorn. 
I  see  him  lead  the  rugged  islander, 
Even  as  a  brother,  to  the  Lamb  of  God, 
Counting  his  untaught  soul  more  precious  far 
Than  all  the  lore  of  all  the  lettered  world. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OP  DR.  ADAM  CLARKE.    281 

I  hear  his  eloquence — but  deeper  still, 
And  far  more  eloquent,  there  conies  a  dirge 
O'er  the  hoarse  wave.     "All  that  we  boast  of  man, 
Is  as  the  flower  of  grass." 

Farewell — Farewell ! 
Pass  on  with  Wesley,  and  with  all  the  great 
And  good  of  every  nation.     Yea  ! — pass  on 
Where  the  cold  name  of  sect,  which  sometimes  throws 
Unholy  shadow  o'er  the  heaven-warmed  breast, 
Doth  melt  to  nothingness — and  every  surge 
Of  warring  doctrine,  in  whose  eddying  depths. 
Earth's  charity  was  drowned,  is  sweetly  lost 
In  the  broad  ocean  of  eternal  love. 


•wrV 


282 


INTEMPERANCE. 

i 

Parent  !  who  with  speechless  feeling, 

O'er  thy  cradle  treasure  bent — 
Found  each  year  new  claims  revealing, 

Yet  thy  wealth  of  love  unspent : 
Hast  thou  seen  that  blossom  blighted, 

By  a  dire,  untimely  frost] 
All  thy  labour  unrequited — 

Every  glorious  promise  lost? 

Wife!  with  agony  unspoken. 

Shrinking  from  Affliction's  rod, 
Is  thy  prop,  thine  idol  broken, 

Fondly  trusted,  next  to  God  ? 
Husband  !  o'er  thy  hope  a  mourner ; 

Of  thy  chosen  friend  ashamed  : 
Hast  thou  to  her  burial  borne  her, 

Unrepentant,  unreclaimed  1 

I 

Child  !  in  tender  weakness  turning  • 

To  thy  heaven-appointed  guide : 
Doth  a  lava-poison  burning. 

Tinge  with  gall  affection's  tide 
Still  that  orphan-burden  bearing, 

Darker  than  the  grave  can  show, 
Dost  thou  bow  Ihee  down  despairing, 

To  a  heritage  of  woe? 


INTEMPERANCE.  283 

Country  !  on  thy  sons  depending, 

Strong  in  manhood,  bright  in  bloom  : 
Hast  thou  seen  thy  pride  descending, 

Shrouded  to  the  unhonoured  tomb  1 
Rise  ! — on  eagle-pinion  soaring. 

Rise ! — like  one  of  god-like  birth, 
And  Jehovah's  aid  imploring. 

Sweep  the  spoiler  from  the  earth. 


284 


THOUGHTS    AT  THE    FUNERAL   OF    A 
RESPECTED   FRIEND. 


That  solemn  knell,  whose  mournful  call 
Strikes  on  the  heart,  I  heard. 

I  saw  the  sable  pall 
Covering  the  form  revered. 
And  lo !  his  father's  race,  the  ancient,  and  the  blest, 
Unlock  the  dim  sepulchral  halls,  where  silently  they  rest. 
And  to  the  unsaluting  tomb, 
Curtained  round  with  rayless  gloom. 
He  entereth  in,  a  wearied  guest. 

To  his  bereaved  abode,  the  fireside  chair. 

The  holy,  household  prayer, 
Affection's  watchful  zeal,  his  life  that  blest. 
The  tuneful  lips  that  soothed  his  pain. 
With  the  dear  name  of  "i^aifAer"  thrilling  through  his  breast, 
He  Cometh  not  again. 
Flowers  in  his  home  bloom  fair, 
The  evening  taper  sparkles  clear, 
The  intellectual  banquet  waiteth  there. 
Which  his  heart  held  so  dear. 
The  tenderness  and  grace 
That  make  religion  beautiful,  still  spread 
Their  sainted  wings  to  guard  the  place — 

Alluring  friendship's  frequent  tread. 
Still  seeks  the  stranger's  foot  that  hospitable  door, 
But  he,  the  husband  and  the  sire,  returneth  never  more. 


THOUGHTS  AT  THE   FUNERAL  OF  A  FRIEND.        285 

His  was  the  upright  deed, 
His  the  unswerving  course, 
'Mid  every  thwarting  current's  force, 
Unchanged  by  venal  aim,  or  flattery's  hollow  reed  : 

The  holy  truth  walked  ever  by  his  side, 
And  in  his  bosom  dwelt,  companion,  judge,  and  guide. 

But  when  disease  revealed 

To  his  unclouded  eye 
The  stern  destroyer  standing  nigh, 

Where  turned  he  for  a  shield  1 
Wrapt  he  the  robe  of  stainless  rectitude 
Around  his  breast  to  meet  cold  Jordan's  flood  1 

Grasped  he  the  staff  of  pride 
His  steps  through  death's  dark  vale  to  guide  ] 

Ah  no  !  self-righteousness  he  cast  aside. 
Clasping,  with  firm  and  fearless  faith,  the  cross  of  Him  who 
died. 

Serene,  serene. 
He  pressed  the  crumbling  verge  of  this  terrestrial  scene. 

Breathed  soft,  in  childlike  trust. 
The  parting  groan. 

Gave  back  to  dust  its  dust- 
To  heaven  its  own. 


286 


THE  BAPTISM. 


'TwAS  near  the  close  of  that  blest  day,  when,  with  melodious 
swell, 

To  crowded  mart  and  lonely  vale,  had  spoke  the  Sabbath- 
bell  ; 

And  on  a  broad,  unruffled  stream,  with  bordering  verdure 
bright, 

The  westering  sunbeam  richly  shed  a  tinge  of  crimson  light. 

When,  lo !  a  solemn  train  appeared,  by  their  loved  pastor  led. 
And  sweetly  rose  the  holy  hymn,  as  toward  that  stream  they 

sped. 
And  he  its  cleaving,  crystal  breast,  with  graceful  movement 

trod. 
His  steadfast  eye  upraised,  to  seek  communion  with  its  God. 

Then  bending  o'er  his  staff,  approached  that  willow-fringed 

shore, 
A  man  of  many  weary  years,  with  furrowed  temples  hoar. 
And   faintly  breathed  his    trembling  lip — "  Behold,  I  fain 

would  be 
Buried  in  baptism  with  my  Lord,  ere  death  shall  summon 


With  brow  benign,  like  Him  whose  hand  did  wavering  Peter 

guide, 
The  pastor  bore  his  tottering  frame  through  that  translucent 

tide. 


THE  BAPTISM.  287 

And  plunged  him  'neath  the  shrouding  wave,  and  spake  the 

Triune  name, 
And  joy  upon    that  withered   face,  in  wondering  radiance 

came. 

And  then  advanced  a  lordly  form,  in  manhood's  towering 

pride. 
Who  from   the  gilded    snares  of  earth   had   wisely  turned 

aside. 
And  following  in  His  steps,  who  bowed  to  Jordan's  startled 

wave. 
In  deep  humility  of  soul,  faithful  this  witness  gave. 

Who  next? — A  fair  and  fragile  form,  in  snowy  robe  doth 

move. 
That  tender  beauty  in  her  eye  that  wakes  the  vow  of  love — 
Yea,  come,  thou  gentle  one,  and  arm  thy  soul  with  strength 

divine. 
This  stern  world  hath  a  thousand  darts  to  vex  a  breast  like 

thine. 

Beneath  its  smile  a  traitor's  kiss  is  oft  in  darkness  bound — 
Cling  to  that  Comforter,  who  holds  a  balm  for  every  wound  ; 
Propitiate  that  Protector's  care,  who  never  will  forsake, 
And  thou  shalt  strike  the  harp  of  praise,  even  when  thy  heart- 
strings break. 

Then  with  a  firm,  unshrinking  step,  the  watery  path  she  trod, 
And  gave,  with  woman's  deathless  trust,  her  being  to  her 

God, 
And  when  all  drooping  from  the  flood  she  rose,  like  lily-stem, 
Methought  that  spotless  brow  might  wear  an  angel's  diadem. 

Yet    more!    Yet    more! — How   meek  they  bow   to    their 

Redeemer's  rite. 
Then  pass  with  music  on  their  way,  like  joyous  sons  of 

light; 


288  THE  BAPTISM. 

Yet,  lingering  on  those  shores  I  staid,  till  every  sound  was 

hushed, 
For  hallowed   musings  o'er  my  soul,   like  spring-swollen 

rivers  rushed. 

'Tis  better,  said  the  Voice  within,  to  bear  a  Christian's  cross. 
Than  sell  this  fleeting  life  for  gold,  which  Death  shall  prove 

but  dross. 
Far  better,  when  yon   shrivelled   skies  are  like  a  baimer 

furled. 
To  share  in  Christ's  reproach,  than  gain  the  glory  of  the 

world. 


WORKS 

RECENTLY  PUBLISHED  BY  KEY  &  BIDDLE, 
No.  23,  MINOR  STREET. 


MIRIAM,  OR  THE  POWER  OF  TRUTH. 

BY    THE    AUTHOR   OF   "INFLUENCE." 

fnr"nf"J°  A  professedly  founded  on  an  "anecdote,  said  to  be  a  wellattened 
fact,  of  ail  American  Jew  converted  to  Christianity  bv  the  rinati.  nr  hi  i 
child,  a  beautiful  girl,vvhom  he  had  reared  vvith.loc'^^Lc^n  care  and  affection'' 
bhe  embraced  the  Christian  faith  unknown  to  her  father,  until  ^vlunTerS 
ips  she  contessed  to  hun  her  apostacy  from  Judaism,  giv  ng  1  im  a  he  Zml 
ZA  „^7/.«'"'^."t'.  ""«''.=»  solemn  injunction  to  believe  in  Jesus  of  Nazareth^ 
.  This  out  Hie  IS  nigen.ously  and  skilfully  filled  up,  and  a  tale  of  deep  jntere'=t 
IS  produced.  There  are  many  passages  of  deep  pi  hog,  and  the  areument  for 
Christianity  adapted  to  the  Jews,  is  happily  sustained.     We  think    he  nleasure 

aftl' in?-^l.":Si/^.^''^  ^"""^-^  '^  ^""P'«  ^-'  ''--"^-'>.  -  the  story  is 

and  arguments  for  the  man  of  unde'rstamli, V'We  '^"       hat'n  an'v  a  l^vei\; 
Jewess  could  be  persuaded  to  read  "  Miriam."^r/,.  P/"/a.Z«SL"       ^  '  ^ 

The  work  altogeth;?r  deserves  to  stand  hi^h  in  th'^  rla«s:  ,^f  nvn.i„„.- 
which  it  belongs.-iS;;jsro;,«;  Kccorder.  °  '^  '  "^  Productions  to 

When  we  see  a  book  which  bears  the  imprint  of  Key  &  Biddle  we  are  alwav^ 
sure  to  see  a  handsome  one.  In  this  case,  we  can  give  as  hicrh  nra^se  to  rho 
matter  as  we  can  to  the  mechanical  execution  ^  ^     ^       "^  *°  ""^ 

"Influence"  was  one  of  the  very  best  of  that  class  of  relidous  novels  Htelv 
her^M;"'t.''"  ^"f''"'^'  a.id  its  gifted  young  author  has  eve^improved  upon 
herself,  i     this  affecting  and  powerful  story.   She  has    aken  that  toSchinff  h^ci 
dent,  well  known  through  the  medium  of  our  tracts,  of  a  Jewish  ma  den  who 
desji's'ed''"""  ''"'  "'°"  °^"  ''"'  ''"'"'='^"'  f'^'"^^  '°  '"«  '«"gi°n  "f  The' Jesu"  he 

It  was  a  subject  too  good  to  be  left  unimproved,  and  in  "Miriam"  has  been 
embalmed,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  delicate  religious  narrafh^es  we  have 
ever  read     No  one  whose  feelings  and  sympathies  are  uncorrupted    can  perull 

II  '""'■^'"gtale,  without  feeling  a  strong  interest,  and  that  sympathy  wlikh 
wi  1  sometimes  melt  them  into  tears.  Upon  the  publication  of  Miriam  in  Lon 
don,  It  quickly  ran  through  three  editions,  and  we  doubt  not  it  will  attain  a 
co-e.xtensive  popularity  here,  where  there  is  more  freshness  of  the  feeline.  and 
a  more  deeply  imbued  spirit  of  rational  piety,  to  appreciate  the  fine  tone  of  re^i^ 
gious  spirit  which  pervades  it— JV.  V.  Com.  Adv. 


AIDS  TO  MENTAL  DEVELOPMENT,  or  Hints  to  Parents. 
Being-  a  System  of  Mental  and  Moral  Instrnction,  exemplified  in 
Conversations  between  a  Mother  and  her  Children,  with  an  Address 
to  Mothers.     Ey  a  Lady  of  Philadelphia. 

A  MANUAL  ON  THE  SABBATH ;  embracing  a  consideration 
of  Its  Perpetual  Obligation,  Change  of  Day,  Utility  and  Duties 
By  John  Holmes  Agnew,  Professor  of  Languages,  Washino-ton  Col- 
lege, Washington,  Pa.  With  an  Introductory  Essay,  by  Dr  Miller 
of  Princeton,  N.  J.  j  ^ 

COUNSELS  FROM  THE  AGED  TO  THE  YOUNG.    By 

Dr.  Alexander.  ' 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  A  FUTURE  STATE.  By  Thomas 
Dick,  author  of  the  Christian  Philosopher,  &c. 

TODD'S  JOHNSON'S  DICTIONARY  OF  THE  ENGLISH 
LANGUAGE.  To  which  is  added,  a  copious  Vocabulary  of  Greek, 
Latin,  and  Scriptural  Proper  Names,  divided  into  syllables,  and  ac- 
cented for  pronunciation.  By  Thomas  Rees,  LL.D.,  F.R.S.A.  The 
above  Dictionary  will  make  a  beautiful  pocket  volume,  same  size 
as  Young  Man's  Own  Book. 

MEMORANDA  OF  A  RESIDENCE  AT  THE  COURT  OF 
LONDON.  By  Richard  Rush,  Envoy  Extraordinary  and  JNlinister 
Plenipotentiary  from  the  United  States  of  America ;  from  1817  to 
1825.     Second  edition,  revised  and  enlarged. 

PAROCHIAL  LECTURES  ON  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOS- 
PEL. By  Stephen  H.  Tyn^,  D.D.,  Rector  of  St.  Paul's  Church, 
Philadelphia. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  PHILOSOPHER,  or  the  Connection  of 
Science  and  Philosophy  with  Religion.     By  Thomas  Dick. 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  RELIGION,  or  an  Illustration  of  the 
Moral  Laws  of  the  Universe.     By  Thomas  Dick. 

THE  IMPROVEMENT  OF  SOCIETY,  by  the  Diffusion  of 
Knowledge;  or  an  Illustration  of  the  advantages  which  would  re- 
sult from  a  general  dissemination  of  rational  and  scientific  informa- 
tion among  all  rankc.  Illustrated  with  engravings.  By  Thomas 
Dick,  LL.D.,  author  of  Philosophy  of  a  Future  State,  &c. 

THE  PIECE  BOOK,  comprising  Choice  Specimens  of  Poetry 
and  Eloquence,  intended  to  bo  transcribed  or  committed  to  memory. 

MEMOIRS  OF  HORTENSE  BEAUHARNAIS,  DUCHESS 
OF  ST.  LEU  AND  EX-QUEEN  OF  HOLLAND. 

This  is  an  interestins;  account  cf  a  conspicuous  character.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Josephine  Beauharnais,  alias,  or  afterwards,  Josephine  Bonaparte, 
former  wife  of  Napoleon  of  France  ;  and  she  became  the  wife  of  Louis  Bonaparte,' 
tiie  ex-king  of  Holland.  Of  those  who  have  figured  at  large  ou  the  great  theatre 
of  life,  at  one  of  the  most  memorable  eras  in  history,  many  interesting  anec- 
dotes are  given.  We  can  safely  recommend  this  work  to  the  reading  public— 
Jimei-ican  Sentinel. 

No  one  of  all  those  distinguished  personages  who  occupied  so  large  a  space  in 
the  world's  eye,  from  their  conne.vion  willi  Napoleon,  presents  a  story  of  deeper 
interest  than  the  amiable  and  accomplished  subject  of  these  mpmoirs.  Possess- 
ing all  the  grace  and  fascination  of  manner,  which  so  eminently  characterized 
her  mother,  the  Empress  Josephine,  she  has  a  strength  and  cultivation  of  intel- 
lect; an  extent  and  variety  of  knowledge;  and  a  philosophic  fortitude  which 
the  Empress  never  could  boast.  Unhappy  in  her  marriage,  she  was  yet  a  de- 
voted wife  and  fond  mother;  and  though  gifted  with  every  quality  to  adorn 
royalty,  she  willingly  withdrew  to  the  shades  of  private  life,  resigning  the  crown 
she  hud  embellished  without  a  murmur. 

Many  of  the  details  of  this  work  will  be  found  deeply  interesting,  and  the  notes 
are  copious  and  instructing.  The  translator  has  faithfully  preserved  the  spirit 
of  his  original. — Saturday  Conner. 


BIT    KB-Sr     &    BIUDLE. 


HARPE'S  MEAD, 

A  LEGEND  OF  KENTUCKY. 

By  James  Hall,  Esq.  author  of  Legends  of  ihe  West,  &c.  &c. 

It  is  an  ahle  production,  characteristic  of  the  writer's  eminent  talents,  an,l 
aboun.liiif;  with  narratives  and  sketches  of  absorbini;  interest.  Tlie  liistorv  of 
Harpe  forms  the  ground- work  of  the  tale,  the  incidents  of  wliich  are  developed 
with  much  skill  and  effect.— PAifarf.  Oa-.ctte.  uoveiopeu 

nuMim"!!;!"  'n""'/  %?'"'  °f  ""^  "'°''  interesting  stories  with  which  we  are  ac- 
quainteci. — JJailij  Chronicle. 

Judge  Hall  is  an-ong  tlie  most  popular  of  American  writers,  and  in  the  present 
prorluction    has  given  another  proof  of  the  felicity  of  his  genius.    It  abounds 

thoL'Ifi"''  "f*?'l-  ''''^■^';''*'®  of  deep  interest,  relating  to  the  early  periods  of 
the  settlement  of  Kentucky.— JV.  Y.  Com.  Adv.  j-  i         u=  ui 

ofTpd?,if  n^'^if"  •V;"V''^''*"^'"""''''^'''''''  ""''  favorably  known  as  the  author 
of  Legends  of  the  West,  has  just  publislied  a  new  work,  entitled  "  IL.rpk-s 

,ii^*M^h"^t'^''='  "//s"""^'--//-''  Tt  is  well  calculated  to  add  to  his  fame,  and 
though  It  bears  evidences  of  being  a  hasty  composition,  reflects  great  credit 
upon  the  author.     It  is  the  story  of  Micajah  Harpe,  a  Kentuckian  Freebooter 

The  «croun;'of"."P'  '^™'"  J'""?'"'"'  •'"  *"«  °'"^^"  '"»«'  '°  ^Tiio  and  Kentucky: 
1  tie  account  of  a  Virginia  Barhecue  is  so  well  and  naturally  e.\ecuted  that  it 
must  become  a  favorite.  It  is  here  inserted  as  a  favorable  specimen  of  tlie  work 
Miss  Pendleton  is  altogether  lovely. -Poulson^s  Daily  Mv  ^'•'-'""'"  °'  "'*^  ^°'^^- 
With  the  ordinary  characters  which  must  be  found  in  such  a  composition  we 
o^^  .?"'^  ''"V*'  o^S'"^'  ''eing,  in  the  person  of  "  Hark  Short,  the  snake-killer-" 
and  the  production,  as  a  whole,  forms  one  of  the  most  engkgin-  volumes  that 
we  have  met  with.  To  its  other  merits  we  should  not  omit^o"add  at  like 
other  writings  from  the  same  pen,  it  is  distinguished  by  an  unobtrusive  tone  of 
the  purest  moral  sentiment.— Pcajj.  Inquirer  "usive  loue  oi 

them^hi'?  h!"""^  commend  this  work  to  the  attention  of  our  readers,  assuring 
them  that  they  will  be  amused,  entertained,  and  instructed  by  its  perusal-they 
will  find  Indian  warfare, -savage  modes  of  life-the  difficulties  and  dangers 

nfi'te,'l!^n''l  "-^  f'''  "''"^  '."""■'^'^'^  '"  '"^^  "'"«•■•  ^^'  wesf-^ielineated  With  a 
ma»tei  kand,  in  language  glowing,  vivid,  and  natural. -A'<itwn/8/  Banner. 

WACOUSTA,  OR  THE  PROPHECY; 

A  Tale  of  the  Canadas.     2  vols. 

This  work  is  of  a  deeply  intere.sting  character,  and  justly  lavs  claim  to  be  of 

vhJh"i'f'  '"'*Vi  ^^'  tl"n'<  it  decidedly  superior  to  any  produc  ion  of  the  kind 

which  has  recently  emanated  from  the  press.     It  abounds  with  thrillin.'  scenes 

Mlisenctr  "^'^Played  a  power  of  delineation  rarely  surpassed.-Z>a%  Li- 

We  have  re.ad  it.  and  unhesitatingly  pronounce  it  one  of  the  most  deeply  in- 
teresting  works  of  fiction  which  has  met  our  eye  for  many  a  month  IMs  ah' s- 
toncal  novel-the  scenes  of  which  are  laid  principally  af  Detroit  and  Mackina 
-and  some  of  the  tragic  events  which  those  j.laces  wiinessed  in  the  e,arv  settle 
ment  of  the  country  are  given  with  historic  accuracy-particularly  he  mas- 
sacre  of  Mackina.-Tha  author  is  evidently  conversant  with  Indian  stata"  en 
and  wuh  Indian  eloquence  ;  and  has  presented  us  with  specimens  of  both  tni ly 
characteristic  of  the  untutored  savage.  We  would  gladly  present  our  ren  lers 
with  an  e.vtract  from  this  interestingVork,  did  our  limit7pe™  t  In  leu  of  an 
e.xtract,  however,  we  commend  the  work  itself  to  Xhem.-CommercM  Herahl 

The  priucpal  personage  of  this  novel  is  a  savage  chief,  and  the  story  of  his 
retreat,  bearing  otT  captive  the  daugi.ter  of  the  Governor,  is  told  with  thd  li  g 
Com'Adv  "  '"""'"  "iroughout,  and  abounds  with  interesting  see.  es.- 


THE  YOUNG  LADY'S  SUNDAY  BOOK; 

A  Practical  Manual  of  the  Christian  Duties  of  Piety,  Benevo- 
lence,  and  Self-g-overnment.     Prepared  with  particular  reference 


3 


r 


to  the  Formation  of  the  Female  Character.  By  the  author  of  "The 
Young-  Man's  Own  Book."  Philadelphia.  Key  &  Biddle,  1833. 
32mo.  pp.  312. 

We  have  read  many  of  the  scloctions  in  this  little  vn}un>p,  and  have  met  with 
notliing  objectionable — Generally,  the  style  is  pure,  easy,  and  pleasing,  ami  the 
matter  good,  well  calculated  f  ;r  the  purpose  for  whicli  the  work  is  intended, 
and  we  cheerfully  recommend  it  to  the  persons  for  whom  it  is  principally  design- 
ed, as  profitable  for  instrnction. — F.;>isropal  RpcorJer. 

A  most  attractive  little  volume  in  its  nppeannce — and  in  this  age  of  sweeping 
frivolity  in  literature,  of  far  superior  cxcellciice  in  its  contents.  Certainly  some 
such  manual  was  refiuirod  for  the  closet — when  novels  and  light  reading  of  every 
description  have  so  ruled  paranionut  in  the  drawing-room.  We  can  give  it  no 
higher  praise  than  to  say  t;>at  the  e.xtracts  are  of  a  character  to  accomplish  all 
that  the  title-page  holds  out. — .V.  Y.  Com.  Me. 

A  cfillccliou  of  excellent  sentiments  from  approved  aiitJjors,  and  adapted  par- 
ticr.larly  to  the  formation  of  the  female  character.  The  chapters  are  short,  and 
embrace  a  great  variety  of  subjects  of  religions  tendency,  and  altogether  the 
book  is  replete  with  instruction.  It  is  illustrated  by  two  pretty  engravings. — Pres- 
byterian. 

As  the  public  feeling  now  runs,  the  publishers  of  this  little  work  have  done 
well  by  tiR'ir  effort  to  keep  it  in  a  proper  chanmd.  The  Young  Lady's  Sunday 
Book  is  altogether  practical  in  its  character,  and  consisting,  as  it  does,  of  short 
pieces,  takes  a  wide  range  in  its  subjects. 

It  is  calculated  to  do  good,  and  we  should  be  happy  to  see  the  principles  incul- 
cated in  the  portions  we  have  read  become  the  ruling  principles  of  all. — Jiarnal 
and  Telegraph. 

Messrs.  Key  &  Biddle  have  just  issued  a  volume  of  the  most  Iieautiful  kind, 
entitled  The  Yon?ig  Lndy'g  S'uvclny  Book.  It  is  full  of  pure,  didactic  matter,  the 
fruits  of  a  pious  and  gifted  mind  ;  and  while  the  clearness  and  light  of  its  pages 
commend  tfiem  to  the  eye,  the  trutli  of  the  precepts  finds  its  way  to  the  heart. 
The  work  can  be  unhesitatingly  praised,  as  worthy  in  all  respects.  The  embel- 
lishments are  finished  and  tasteful.  "  Mcditalion,"  the  frontispiece,  from  the 
hurin  of  Ellis,  would  add  a  grace  to  any  annual.  We  trust  Messrs.  Key  &c  Biddle 
reci'ive  a  libera!  patronage  from  the  religious  community,  for  we  know  of  no 
booksellers  in  this  country  wlio  issue  more  good  volumes  calculated  to  subserve 
the  immortal  interests  of  man.— Philad.  Caz. 


TRANSATLANTIC  SKETCHES, 

Comprising  visits  to  the  most  interesting  scenes  in  North  America, 
and  the  West  Indies,  with  Notes  on  Negro  Slavery  and  Canadian 
Emigration.  By  Capt.  J.  E.  Alexander,  43d  Royal  Highlanders, 
F.  R.  G.  S.  M.  R.  A.  S.  &c.  author  of  Travels  in  Ava,  Persia,  &c. 

We  are  liappy  to  have  the  opportunity  afi(irded  us  of  noticing  such  a  book  of 
travels  as  that  called  Transatlantic  Sketches. — Americnn  Senlinel 

One  of  the  most  interesting  and  instructive  works  that  has  ajipeared  for  some 
time,  has  just  been  issued  from  the  press  of  Key  &.  Biddle,  entitled  Transat- 
lantic Sktitches. — Peiin.  Inqtiircr. 

We  wish  wo  had  room  to  speak  of  this  volume  according  to  our  high  opinion 
of  its  merit,  and  to  make  the  reader  acquainted  with  the  style  and  spirit  of  the 
writer,  by  presenting  some  extracts.  Captain  Alexander,  as  a  narrator  of  what 
he  sees  and  hears,  has  hit  our  taste  exactly.  We  do  not  feel  like  a  reader,  but 
a  fellow-traveller — not  in  company  with  a  dull,  prosing  fallow,  but  with  a  gen- 
tleman of  life  and  spirit,  of  wit  and  learning.  Upon  the  whole,  we  commend  the 
book  to  the  public,  as  one  of  the  very  best  of  the  numerous  recent  publications 
of  travels  that  have  been  sent  forth. —  Com.  Herald. 


THE  RELIGIOUS  SOUVENIR; 

A  Christmas,  New-Year's,  and  Birth-Day  Present  for  1834. 
Edited  by  G.  T.  Bedell,  D.D.,  illustrated  with  eight  splendid  steel 
engravings. 


r 


BIT    KEir    &    BIBDI^E. 


A  vnluino,  ton,  wliicli  dnos  not  dcffrailp  nr  Ai=nr-,^r.  .i,„      ■  •     . 
tii.e<l,  not  to  ,.,-is.s  :uvay  with  t  .rwIiTtor^r, ,  f,f  u,   ,    ^^''''•'™'-'''  ^"'""i''  ''^s- 

nounco  it  o„e  of  unuJ!^  In^ii^^nl':^;::^^^:^^-^^'^  ^^-^  to  p.o- 

on  these  occasions  IkmVo,!  '"or  u^o^^^^^^^^  Why  shon.d  all  our  s,f,s 

shun  the  a.ds  of  bea„lif„l  jVnauK      ?  Thte L  b  !  liiZl  •■""">'^ 

soU'Cte.l,  and  well  pxccutud      The  varion  "nnnl ,•",,  ■  ^  'ittractne,  well 

as  wc  should  have  ovpect  mI  1>    n  on,  lo  tt.i',  u    r     /,  °  gospel   ,n  a  word,  such 
inventive  of  happy  tl  ou^luV  ^s  .h^ll'^v    F^^^^^^^^^  =""'  -=° 

recon.nendedto\'l-,eChrr.tian"i;,h;ic.-y%e''S<,,f/^^^^^  "^^  "^  ^^^^'^ 

present  to  their  fricnds/Ve  would  .u    in  cr^-h.lT,'^  n,ake  a  really  valuable 
gwus  Souvemr.  It  is  not  merely  a  bAli'au    li  t  e  or    , ';  ^".T^  'J™'""'''  ""^  ^^'^''■- 

!;:^>,S;:.,^,""'^  -""^  ^^  =^V^r;r^v^^?s^iX-:i.^;^^s -!-^-: 
it  Sl^'Sti'^erl^;:;^;?^^' ^^(rt'^!,"^';:;^?^  °f '-  -'■^-  -""« 

its  subjects  are  far  more  ?uUal  le  f  r^  ?L  .^^  P"hl«shed  an  our  country,  while 

...ht  read,n,  wUh  wi-^^r;!;!^^  V;hJ,!r^';^;:5;i^^,;^rS^tha„  the 

vol;j^:.^^^-i:^!,^n;^^f  t'-^^^^»<;-|^'e.  -d  as  to  appearance,  attractive 
was  with  no  little  misgiving  weyokJd  i  to  .ho  n"''  ''^"^  "nP'-'>fitablc,  that  it 
fore  us,  entitled  "  The  Rel  Sious  So   ven  r  "    hm  ^  ""'f  "^ ■"""  "'^'''^''  *«  ""^^  he- 

R  Iginu^  &enir"or  1831"  D^  teilni'T'^'TJ'''''  ^■^'"^"'^  '"^«er  of  the 
lettres  attainmen  as  for  the  nn2nt  ^%'V'."^''  -^'^tin^uished  for  his  belles- 
his  motivel  He  hks  found  hin'^'e^-  L,  ?.  '  "^  1ms  scholarship  and  the  purity  of 
,eood  company  wi,rthrassocarelMZn^  ^"''f*^"'  enterprise!  and  in 

pages.-A^.  r/^FecWy  j}Lf,''^^;.!''°'^  '^'°"t  °^ '^e  contributors  to  his  beautiful 

iSt:ii!;-7k:-- -  -- n^-.zes  ;i:^s^:-^.,  -^-j- 

tion  to  all  others  of  its  ca=sp.I    si  'd  in  ?.   ''"';'"'■  I"  '^''^"^"^'^  =""'  ^•■^'^«»- 


LETTERS  TO  AN  ANXIOUS  INQUIRER, 

Designed  to  relieve  the  difficulties  of  a  Friend,  under  Serious  Impressions. 

BY  T.  CARLTON  HENRY,  D.  D. 

Late  Pastor  of  the  Second  Presbyterian  Church,  Charleston,  S.  C. 

With  an  Introductory  Essay,  (in  which  is  presented  Dr.  Henry's 
Preface  to  his  Letters,  and  his  Life,  by  a  friend.)  By  G.  T.  Bedell, 
D.D.,  Rector  of  St.  Andrew's  Church,  Philadelphia. 

It  is  an  important  volume,  and  is  an  indispensable  auxiliary  to  a  proper  con- 
templation of  the  most  important  of  all  subjects.  The  work  contaius  a  very 
judicious  Introductory  Essay,  from  the  pen  of  the  Rev.  G.  T.  Bedell,  Rector  of 
St.  Andrew's  Church,  in  this  city.— Saf.  Eve.  Post. 

In  a  revival  of  religion  amon?  his  own  people.  Dr.  Bedell  found  this  work  use- 
ful, and  was  led  to  seek  its  republication  in  a  cheap  and  neat  form,  for  the  advan- 
tage of  those  who  cannot  alTord  to  purchase  costly  volumes.  VVe  hope  the  work 
may  prove  a  blessing  to  all  who  shall  read  it. —  The  Philadelpliian. 

These  letters  have  been  for  many  years  highly  valued  for  the  practical  and 
appropriate  instruction  for  which  they  are  principally  designed. —  Preshyterian. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE,  AND  OTHER  TALES. 

By  James  Hall,  Esq.  author  of  "  Legends  of  the  West,  &c. 
Contents. — 1.  The  Soldier's  Bride ; — 2.  Cousin  Lucy  and  the 
Village  Teacher ; — 3.  Empty  Pockets; — 4.  The  Captain's  Lady; — 
5.  The  Philadelphia  Dun;— 6.  The  Bearer  of  Dispatches ;— 7.  The 
Village  Musician; — 8.  Fashionable  Waterino'-Places ; — 9.  The 
Useful  Man  ;— 10.  The  Dentist;— 11.  The  Bachelor's  Elysium;— 
12.  Pete  Featherton ;— 10.  The  Billiard  Table. 

We  have  just  risen  from  the  perusal  of  the  Soldier's  Bride.  The  impression  it 
leaves  upon  the  mind  is  like  that  which  we  receive  from  the  sight  of  a  landscape 
of  rural  beauty  and  repose — or  from  the  sound  of  rich  and  sweet  melody.  Every 
part  of  this  delightful  tale  is  redolent  of  moral  and  natural  loveliness.  The 
writer  belongs  to  the  same  class  with  Irving  and  Paulding;  and  as  in  his  de- 
scriptions, characters,  and  incidents,  he  never  loses  sight  of  the  true  and  legiti- 
mat(!  purpose  of  fiction,  the  elevation  of  the  taste  and  moral  character  of  liis 
readers,  he  will  contribute  his  full  share  to  tlie  creation  of  sound  and  healthful 
literature.— J7.  S.  Gazette. 

Key  &  Biddle  have  recently  published  another  series  of  Tales— the  Soldier's 
Bride",  &c.  by  James  Hall.  The  approbation  everywhere  elicited  by  Judge  Hall's 
Legends  of  the  West,  has  secured  a  favorable  reception  for  the  present  volume; 
and  its  varied  and  highly  spirited  contents,  consistinc  of  thirteen  tales,  will  be 
found  no  less  meritorious  than  his  previous  labors. — National  Oazette. 

AVe  have  found  much  to  admire  in  the  perusal  of  this  interesting  work.  It 
abounds  in  correct  delineation  of  character,  and  although  in  some  of  his  tales, 
the  author's  style  is  familiar,  yet  he  has  not  sacrificed  to  levity  the  dignity  of 
his  pen,  nor  tarnish(>d  his  character  as  a  chaste  and  classical  WTiter.  At  the 
present  day,  when  the  literary  world  is  flooded  with  fustian  and  insipidity,  and 
the  public  taste  attempted  to  be  vitiated  by  the  weak  and  effeminate  productions 
of  those  whose  minds  are  as  incapable  of  imagining  the  lofty  and  generous  feel- 
ings they  would  pourtray,  as  their  hearts  are  of  e,\ercising  them,  it  is  peculiarly 
gratifying  to  receive  a  work,  from  the  pages  of  which  the  eye  may  cater  with 
satisfaction,  and  the  mind  feast  with  avidity  and  b(inel\t.—PittsMirg  Mercury. 


TALES  OF  ROMANCE,  FIRST  SERIES. 

This  is  not  only  an  uncommonly  neat  erlition,  but  a  very  entertaining  book ; 
how  could  it  he  otherwise,  when  such  an  array  of  authors  as  the  following  is 
presented — 

The  work  contains  Ali's  Bride,  a  tale  from  the  Persian,  by  Thomas  Moore,  in- 


mr    KS-y     5t    BIDDLE. 


Wire  Moicl.ant's  Story   bv    1  t^a  Hlior  nf  ,V  =.'^"'  1""  S'-'^;a"y  enhances.   The 

the  author  of  Stories  of  Wa  er  oo      BlibuA  s  Legon.I  of  Rose  Rocke,  by 

Story  of  the  Heart.     The  Vacant  Chair   hvTAT"^:^; '  ""^  P'arlcs  Lamb.     A 

Meadows,  by  Mi.==s  Mitford  '  ^      ^^-  ^^''^°"  '•  '""'  "'e  <iuee.i  of  the 

Wrhtrtl^Jev^y  worai"a''nd%an'ctS^^^         '""  '"^'r'^'^"  --'-»''5'- 
-./ournaZ  of  Belles  Leitres.  confidently  reconnnend  it  to  our  friends. 

ZOE,  OR  THE  SICILIAN  SAYDA 

a  hij;h  rank,  and  although  not  so  m'ich  Nn  td  .«  m  r  '       '  Pfotluction  will  take 

THE  TESTIMONY  OF  NATURE  AND  REVFT  ATroM  to 
GOD  ^f^^S^  JJE^^^^ECTIONS,  aU  GO^'SmENt'' S? 
H^fnrv  n/.i     TT    /•i^o"''^  ^f^""''  Dunfermline,  author  of  the 

A  work  of  great  research  and  great  UletU.-Evangelical  Magazine. 
it^.S^;^^-;^-::i:^— 1,,S  ^-^y  ^^  "ni."Peachab.e.  and 
J/X",:^"^^".'..^^  ^""e'"^'^  --'^-'  °f  -  P--  -d  highly  gifted  man.- 

LETTERS  FROM  THE  NORTH  OF  EUROPE 

Fil'  ^rT^  of  Travels  in  Holland,  Denmark,  Norway,  Sweden, 
Finland,  Russia,  Prussia,  and  Saxony.  By  Charles  B.  Elliott,  Esq 


"WrORKS    nSCENTIiV    PXTBLISHED 

yOU^'G  MAX'S  OWX  BOOK. 
A  Manual  of  Politeness,  Intellectual  Improvement,  and  Moral 
Deportment,  calculated  to  form  the  character  on  a  solid  ba^is,  and 
to  insure  respectability  and  success  in  life. 

Its  contents  are  made  up  of  brief  and  well  written  ej<avs  upon  subjects  very 
jndwriously  =electe»i.  and  will  prove  a  useful  and  valuable  work  to  those  who 
sive  it  a  careful  reading,  and  make  proper  us*  of  tboso  taints  wWch  the  author 
throws  out. — Banian  TVwr. 

We  che«rfuUT  recommend  a  pemsal  of  the  Toana  Man's  Own  Book  to  all  our 
young  friends,  for  we  are  convinced  that  if  ibey  read  it  faithfully,  they  will  &ud 
themselves  both  wiser  and  better. — The  Foung  .Van's  Jdtxaie. 

In  the  Touns  Man's  Own  Book,  much  sound  advice  upon  a  variety  of  im- 
portant subjects  is  administered,  and  a  lar^e  number  of  rules  are  laid  down  for 
the  resulatioD  of  conduct,  the  practice  of  which  cannot  fail  to  insure  respecta- 
bility.— Saturdtf  Courier. 

JOmXAL  OF  A  XOBLEMAX; 
Being  a  yarralite  of  his  residence  at  Vienna,  during  Congress. 

The  author  is  quite  spirited  in  his  remarks  on  occurrences,  and  his  sketches  of 
character  are  picturesque  and  amusing.  We  commend  this  volume  to  our  read- 
ers as  a  very  entertaining  production. — Dcilij  Intel. 

We  presume  no  one  could  take  up  this  little  volume  and  dip  into  it.  without 
feelins  resret  at  beins  obliged  by  any  cause  to  put  it  dowTi  before  it  was  read. 
The  style  is  fine,  as  are  the  descriptions,  the  persons  introduced,  tosethcr  with 
the  anecdotes,  and  in  general,  the  entire  sketching  is  by  the  hand  of  a  master. 
Evervnhing  appears  natural — there  is  no  atfectation  of  learning — no  overstrain- 
ins — no  departure  from  wiiat  one  would  eipect  to  see  and  hear — all  is  easy — all 
graceful. — Com.  Herald. 


YOUXG  LADY'S  OWX  BOOK, 
A  Manual  of  Intellectual  Improvement  and  Moral  Deportment 
By  the  author  of  the  Young  Man's  Own  Book. 

Messrs.  Key  &:  Biddle.  of  this  city,  have  published  a  very  neat  little  volume, 
entitled  The  Young  Lady's  Own  Book.  Its  contents  are  well  adapted  to  its  use- 
ful purpose. — S'aiional  Gazette. 

The  Ycung  Lady's  Own  Book  seems  to  ns  to  have  been  carefully  prepared,  to 
cov^rebend  much  and  various  instruction  of  a  practical  character,  and  to  corre- 
spond in  its  contents  with  its  title. — Ttrang  Max's  jldrocate. 

The  Young  Lady's  Own  B'X>k.  embelli5he<l  with  beautiful  engraving?,  should 
be  in  the  hands  of  every  young  female. — Ir.guirer. 

All  the  articles  in  the  Young  Lady's  Own  Book  are  of  a  asefiil  and  interesting 
character. — ,V.  T.  Cam.  .Idr. 


AX  ADDRESS  TO  THE  YOUXG,  OX^  THE  DiPORT- 

AXCE  OF  REUGIOX.     By  John  Foster,  author  of  Esays  on 

Decision  of  Character,  &:c~ 

We  are  not  soing  to  hold  a  rash  lisht  up  to  a  book  of  John  Foster'?  bnt  only 
mean  to  tell  what  is  its  intent.  It  is  an  awakening  appeal  to  yout{-  of  the  re- 
fined and  educated  sort,  upon  the  subject  of  their  personal  religion.  There  can 
be  no  doubt  as  to  its  cuirencv. — T*jf  Presbvterian. 


A  MOTHER'S  FIRST  THOUGHTS.  By  the  author  of  «  Faith's 

Telescope." 

TTiis  is -a  brief  miniature,  from  an  Edinburgh  edition.  Its  aim  is  to  furnish 
Beligious  Meditations.  Prayers,  and  Devotional  Poetry  for  pious  mothers.  It  is 
most  highly  commended  in  the  Edinburgh  Presbyterian  Keview,  and  in  the 
Christian  Advocate.  The  author,  who  is  a  lady  of  Scotland,  unites  a  deep  know- 
ledge of  sound  theology,  with  no  ordinary  talent  for  sacred  poetry. — Presbvterian. 


BV    KETT    £i     EIDDLE. 


EXAMPLE;  OR,  FAMILY  SCENES. 

Family  Scenes,'  which  belons  to  the  same  cla-s  with  Mrr«!K.r^.JS??t-^P''* 
are  intcn.led  to  ill„>trate  the  i^.n,.enr<^  rrexamn^e    Trw:?;.rh A?      •  'T'""?^' 

A  H.\?.MOXY  OF  THE  FOUR  GOSPELS, 

Founded  on  the  Arrangement  of  the  Harmonia  Evan^eHca,  by 
Slif  ^r  ^^:^"^. Grcsuell.  With  the  Practical  Reflections  of  Dr. 
Doddridge  Designed  for  Uie  use  of  Families  and  School,  and  for 
Pnvate  EdiScation.  By  the  Rev.  K  Bickersteth,  Rector  of  Wolton, 

h.^i.^'^u^'tl  •'"''Jecimo  of  about  foar  hnndred  pas^;   and  one  of  the  bp«t 

rant  ^f  ,K  Z  ""f«*=>f'le  to  read  the  ordinary  Harmonic^     Thp  cur- 

rent of  the  narrative  is  broken  by  constant  interruptions.  In™  Ai]  we  have  in 
convenient  s.-c„ons  the  fourGospel  histories,  made  up  into  one  in 'p^^r^Jrder 
n  Jin  ,''■'"■''-' i"*^  the  common  English  tTansIation/xbe  devotioKor/=  of 
D^dndge  are  better  than  any  we  have  seen  for  reading  in  thecloit  or  at  fami?T 
uorship  The  name  of  Bickersteth.  prefixed  to  a  book,  is  enouzh  to  =how  Uia^ 
.t  IS  written  simply  to  serve  tlie  cause  of  Cbrist.-TAe  PrJ^^^cn. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  LIFE. 

A  Poe.m,  pronounced  before  the  Franklin  Sccietr  of  Brown  Uni- 

Chrk'^k  '^"^'^"    '^^''^^  °''''^''  ^'^'^-     ^''  ^^'^^  Gaylord 

We  hope  Mr.  Clark  may  find  sufficient  inducements  to  place  before  the  nnhlir 

h/AZicals  of1h/r"  "^""  •'/''"  "''*^''  '""'y  ^*«  now  ^atS^'^th'^oS 

This  poetry  is  of  no  common  order.  The  author  beantifullv  describes  the  <!nirit 
and''4.v^v^J/ii'fi«t^rii%'';^T''  of  sound  morality,  in  the  cruise  of  smooth 


-WORKS    IlECBNTr.Y    PUBLISHED 


THE  HAPPINESS  OF  THE  BLESSED, 
Considered  as  to  the  particulars  of  their  state ;  their  recognition 
of  each  other  in  that  state ;  and  its  difference  of  degrees.  To  which 
are  added,  Musings  on  the  Church  and  her  Services.     By  Richard 
Mant,  D.  D.  M.  R.  I.  A.  Lord  Bishop  of  Down  and  Connor. 

The  desi-Ti  of  the  Rev.  author  in  this  production,  is  to  adduce  from  scriptural 
authority,  the  most  satisfactory  evidence  of  the  happiness  and  joy  of  those  who 
by  faith  follow  Christ,  and  vvlio,  in  the  exercise  of  those  virtues  required  by  the 
Rospel,  are  emphatically  denominated  the  children  of  God  The  author  has 
touched  upon  several  topics  connected  Vvith  the  subject,  wliich  must  afloid  much 
consolation  to  the  Christian,  who,  from  the  very  nature  of  h.s  organizatioi,  js 
liable  to  doubts  and  fearful  forebodings  as  to  the  state  of  his  heart  and  the 

^'chri'sUan  hope,' confidence,  and  cliarity,  are  stamped  upon  every  page,  and  the 
writer  deserves  well  of  the  Christian  inquirer,  for  the  industry  which  he  has  dis- 
nlaved  in  collecting  and  arrauging  so  many  important  and  valuable  arguments 
Fi  favor  of  the  glofious  and  resplendent  state  of  the  faithful  and  humble  disciple 

°\n\l%  world,  mankind  have  need  of  consolation-of  the  cup  of  sorrow  all 
must  drink-happiness  is  a  phantom,  a  meteor,  beautiful  and  briglit,  always  al- 
liirinff  us  by  its  glow-forever  within  our  reach,  but  eternally  eluding  our  grasp 
-but  this  state  of  things  was  designed  by  our  Creator  for  our  benefit-it  was 
intended  to  withdraw  our  affections  from  the  shadowy  and  unsubstantial  pleas- 
ures of  the  world,  to  the  Father  of  all  in  Heaven,  and  to  prepare,  by  discipline 
and  zeal,  for  a  state,  beyond  the  grave,  of  felicity,  which  eye  hath  not  seen  ear 
hath  not  heard,  neither  hath  it  entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive  of  To 
our  readers  we  cheerfullv  commend  this  delightful  volume,  confident  that  by  its 
perusal  the  faith  of  the  doubtful  will  be  confirmed,  and  the  anticipative  hope  of 
the  confident  increased.— CAristmra's  Magazine. 

We  take  the  earliest  onportunitv  of  introducing  to  our  readers  this  excellent 
little  book  to  which  the  deeply  interesting  nature  of  the  subject,  and  the  well- 
earned  reputation  of  the  Right  Rev.  author  will  secure  no  inconsiderable  portion 
of  attention  The  vast  importance  of  the  topics  herein  treated,  and  the  valuable 
practical  effects  they  may  assist  in  producing,  induce  us  to  call  thus  early  the 
public  attention  to  a  work,  small  indeed  in  size,  but  which  is  calculated  not  a 
little  to  inform  all  candid  and  serious  inquirers  into  a  subject  hitherto  involved 
in  much  obscurity,  but  not  a  little  elucidated  by  the  present  author.— Ge/it.  Mag. 

MEMOIR  OF  MISS  MARY  JANE  GRAHAM. 
By  the  Rev.  Charles  Bridges,  M.  A.  author  of  Christian  Min- 
istry, &c.  &c. 

We  have  seldom  read  a  biographical  sketch  which  we  could  more  cordially  or 
confidently  recommend  to  the  Christian  reader.  The  highly  gifted,  accomplished, 
and  °pir  tually-minded  subject  of  the  work  has  found  a  kindred  spirit  in  the  ex- 
Lllent  aulC  He  has  used  his  valuable  materials  in  such  a  manner  as  to  ren- 
der the  memoir  of  Miss  Graham  not  less  rich  in  interest  than  full  of  instruction, 
trafwho  are  capable  of  being  interested  in  the  highest  menta  endowments, 
sane  ifled  and  set  apart  to  the  service  of  God.  There  are  few,  either  believers 
or  unbeUevers,  who  may  not  be  instructed  by  the  counsel,  or  benefited  by  the 
example  of  Miss  Gts.\ia.m.— Episcopal  Recorder. 

In  manv  respects  it  is  one  of  the  richest  pieces  of  biography  with  which  we 
are  acquainted.— P)-es62/teHan. 

TALES  OF  ROMANCE,  SECOND  SERIES. 

The  Tales  of  Romance,  which  Messrs.  Key  &  Biddle  have  just  published,  are 
al^gether  above  the  ordinary  collections  of  the  day.  Every  author  .ncnided 
tmong  the  contributors  to  the  volume,  has  acquired  previously  a  distinct  reputa- 
Uon  in  o  her  works.  Such  names  as  Malcolm,  Roscoe,  and  others  vvill  bo  sufli- 
cient  to  give  an  idea  of  the  merits  of  these  Tales.  The  story  of  Fazio,  frmn 
whence  if  derived  the  tragedy  of  that  name,  is  well  and  concisely  told  We  shall 
JTresent  ^he  beJt  part  of  if  so^n,  to  the  readers  of  the  Intelligencer.^i)a./y  Intel. 

To 


BY    KEY    &    BIDDLE. 


GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  GEOLOGY  OF  SCRIPTURE 

corroborative  testimony  of  pS  fa^^s  on  "''^^  ^'''''''^'  ^^  '^^ 
earth's  surface.     Ey  G^rge^ frholmtEV"  '''''  ''''  "^  ^^« 

^-£^^Cr^^olZ!t^\^:::^!^X^!-'^'','o  -nghten  the  .nind  upon  the 
to  our  stock  of  ,„eas,  or  \^i^^U:s^.r::i^^°I^^']'''  •>«^?''^'<^d  fomuch 
our  paper  permitted,  we  should  take  nlAs^r^  ;„   F      ''''^u''.°"-    ^^  "'e  iimits  of 

-M.d^„  abundance  or  ^^Z^T^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ry^U^ 

Th^^^^i^r^^^t^rii;!;:;;:^.!^;?^!!;^^'!:;^'™^;  Es^   is  an  admirable  work, 
such  ,s  US  destiny._C/»V.(/a;ro<zVe«<;        '     "'''  •'"''^'"S  '^^O'"  ''«  intrinsic  merit, 

LIFE  OF  WILLiIm  COWPER,  ESQ. 

or^:^.^^:':^^^:^:'?::^  ^"t^^^er  authentic  sources 

^s-^!^?.  --- -- -  er  s;- ^^^ 

ot;fe,-^"^;L':u^,.rc'h?e;?e";^^^rect"'^^^^^  ''.^'h^  P^etnot  found  in 

tal  aberration.     It  is  due  t  le  rn  ,!=.  ^f  .  ^   "'^?  impressions  relative  to  his  men 
the  truth  sho.Ud  bo  rec"1v     ;\"  "^°  /;~''>:-/"^  of  justice  generally/that 

an^  wi?;^^'\^,7,?.?;r'j^[fnr  b;r;7d'„^°"'''^v^ii^ "-"  --"  --ted, 

man,  whose  accomplishlne,  ts    exc"ll/nc  e,    t]'"'  f  '*"'  '""'^'"«  ^^<i  Pious 
rendered  hiui  an  oh  ect  of  interest  to  the  wor?d     VV.'".'""' '^  ?*"  ^^^^'acter,  have 

^^^^e"l^^^S!^!^^^^^^:^J^^^  r'^  ^-^^  '^^■'•^"•'t  Hayley's 
w.shing  to  unravel  a  few  thi,  41n  the  noe,-  h  ,"  *"'  ^"'"'"es  s-nce,  without 
■n.vstery.  Taylor  professes  to  fea  opeulv'^  nndr^n  ""'^  T,'""''  ^^"'^  t"'™  'eft  in 
beautiful  volume,  he  has  given  us  the  substanrenf'iT  ''"l.'^?n'^e"lmer.t.  In  one 
>ng  the  most  sensible  and  pious  of  alTtheFn,.H=h"  '?'^''  ','  '^"°-"  concern- 
be  regarded  as  the  best  of  tlieir  kind  wh^,  "A '*  ??•''*'  w'wse  writings  will 
read.  In  all  his  numerous  wo  kshe'^^;"^";';  "5  J"^''^^  ''-M'Suage  slfall  be 
sense  Can  this  be  said  of  scarcelvanv  other  rhi^MnfH^'"'"''''  J'"-'«  -''"o"' 
have  Hayley's  two  volumes,  will  be  Ihankfi-l  f--  h     -  ■  ?''^"*^^  '   '^^°^^  '"^^ 

who  have  neither,  should  purchase  this  new  rnm^^^^  .  '  °f Jaylor;  and  those 
work  which  will  be  found  interestinr^  to  nn  ^"■"P^'^'t'O"  without  delay.  It  is  a 
I'terature  and  genuine  pietyan^to  place  win  if^'fh  <^^P<^'='a"y, to  the  lovers  of 
many  of  whom  have  neither  he  meLs  nor  the  e,'^!  T  ^''"^^■■»'  readers, 

tha  IS  really  interesting  respecting  that  "hmilaH '  "ffl    °  consult  larger  works,  al 
duct.ons,  both  poetic  and  prose,  can  never  Sad  hnf^.n^  <  "dividual,  whose  pro- 
Messrs  Key  &  Biddle  deserve  rredrfn      ,  ^'''''''^''^^^'Si''--P^^^i<'<ic!p/dan. 

cheap  and  cLvenient  a  L™!  wbatmisfre'"^,^^^^^^         ''''  ''^'''  °f  »"•  *"  «" 


11 


STORKS    PUBLISIIIID    BY    KEY    &    BIDDLE^ 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  WEST. 

By  James  Hall,  second  edition,  containing  the  following  beauti- 
ful told  tales :— The  Backwoodsman  ;— The  Divining  Rod;— The 
Seventh  Son ;— The  Missionaries ;— The  Legend  of  Carondolet  ;— 
The  Intestate ;— Michael  De  Lancey ;— The  Emigrants ;— The  In- 
dian Hater;— The  Isle  of  the  Yellow  Sands;— The  Barrackmas- 
ter's  Daughter ;— The  Indian  Wife's  Lament. 

We  are  glad  to  see  a  new  edition  of  these  well-told  tales  of  Judge  Hall  has 
recently  been  published.— £osf.  Eoe.  Gaz. 

The  deserved  popularity  of  these  tales  of  Judge  Hall,  have  secured  to  them  the 
publication  of  a  second  edition.  His  sketches  are  admirably  drawn  and  his 
personal  familiarity  with  scenery  and  life  in  the  West,  have  furni^^hed  him  with 
incidents  of  peculiar  interest,  greatly  increased  by  felicitous  description.— JV.  Y. 
Com.  Adv. 

The  rapid  sale  of  the  first,  has  created  a  demand  for  a  second  edition  of  the 
work,  whose  title  heads  this  article.  . 

The  "  Legends"  comprise  twelve  articles,  one  of  which  is  poetic.  1  he  scenes 
of  these  tales  are  all  located  in  the  "  far,  far  West,"  and  the  characters  are  taken 
from  the  aborigines  and  early  emigrants.  The  difficulties  and  dangers  which  tlie 
first  settlers  had  to  undergo  ere  they  were  established  in  security,  are  depicted 
in  glowing  colors,  and  with  a  master  hand.  .  ,     .u       •  , 

The  rude  and  savage  warfare  of  the  Indians,  the  secret  ambuscade,  the  mid- 
night'slaughter,  the  conflagration  of  the  log  hut  in  the  praine  and  forest,  the 
shneks  of  "consuming  women  and  cliilriren,  are  presented  to  our  minds  by  the 
author  in  vivid  and  impressive  language.  These  fairs  possess  much  intrrest,  as 
thev  are  founded  in  fact,  and  are  iUustrative  of  the  habits  of  the  Indian,  and 
the  life  of  the  hunter.  As  a  writer.  Judge  Hall  is  more  American  than  any  other 
we  possess ;  his  scenes  are  American  ;  his  characters  are  American  and  his  an- 
cuace  is  American  His  personages  are  invested  wilh  an  individuality  which 
cannot  be  mistaken,  and  his  conceptions  and  illustrations  are  drawn  from  the 
great  storehouse  of  Nature.— X>aj/!/  Intel. 

THE  CHURCH  OF  GOD, 

In  a  Series  of  Dissertations,  by  the  Rev.  Robert  Wilson  Evans, 
of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 

The  object  of  the  writer  is  to  show  that  tlie  fundamental  doctrines  of  the 
Christian  Religion  have  been  tauglit  in  the  various  dispensations,  from  the  in- 
stitution of  the  Church  in  the  family  of  Adam,  to  the  more  clear  and  perfect 
exposition  of  its  principles  by  the  Savior  and  his  apostles.  He  is  thus  led  to 
deal  whollv  with  general  principles— those  in  which  Ihe  great  body  of  Christians 
a<Tree  Tliis  frees  his  work  from  all  savor  of  sectarianism,  and  the  ingenuity 
and  talent  exhibited  in  its  execution,  commend  it  to  the  religious  of  every  name. 
It  would  perhaps  bo  well  to  say,  that  the  above  work  is  by  the  author  ot  Kec- 
tory  of  Valehead."— jEpiscopai  Recorder. 

THE  PROGRESSIVE  EXPERIENCE  OF  THE  HEART, 
UNDER  THE  DISCIPLINE  OF  THE  HOLY  GHOST,  FROM 
REGENERATION  TO  MATURITY.     By  Mrs.  Stevens. 


knowledge  and  experience.  The  operatic  .  . 
man,  are  traced  with  a  discrimination  which  nothing  but  a  personal  experience 
of  his  influences  could  have  furnished.  Doddridge's  Rise  and  Progress  of  Reli- 
gion in  the  Soul,  is  an  admirable  book  on  this  subject,  but  Mrs.  Stevens  s  treatise 
deserves  an  honorable  place  at  its  side.  Ministers  of  the  Gospel  should  consult 
the  spiritual  welfare  of  their  people,  by  recommending  and  promoting  the  cir- 
culation of  such  works.— PresAi/ieciffl".  

__ 


A-A   .    ..         ^  ^^^^^  ^0^  MOTHERS. 

between  a  Mother  aSerSS^^^^  whr^"l1j"  ConversatJns 
By  a  Lady  of  Philadelphia.  '       ^^  ^"  ^^"^'^'^  to  Motliers.  j 

a'S?^?^-  -'-^^e1,fSf  .:;^,Ss^''  ^'^"^  """'  '-  >e-ns  of 
!    he  hmtf  nf  '"  ^'"^  '■'^'"  dischaV  of  the  duties  of  V      '*  "  "  ^"  "cquisitioi, 

any  th!nr!'"»"  "/^   ?"'-  of  aft      io,         'o"pLs',;';e'°.  "r,""^""'^  and "v.a      ' 

grow,.  Of  ,,,,  ,,^  .,;-'>^t,.y  are     .  ™  .s  happily  adapted  ll^U^^l^tL 

As  the  subject  of  education  i=,  nn„  „f         ^'.'^'''■'"''^—G'l'-isUan  Gazette. 
felt  as  such,  by  many  who     aJe  hithefto'hP  .""f°,"''"'=«'  ^'"1 '«  beginning  ,o  be 
t.on   we  cannot  doubt  that  thi?worrwiii  m    ?"'''•'',  "P""  '^  ^oo  little  considera 
uS  M,"  '  """  ^^•^'=^"  -'''merely  recoTnl'nd'i^rolhp"'''"'^^^'^'  ^"'^  ^^"ens^ve 
t-n  of  ail  parents  who  have  you^.g  chirc/Jiriir'^r'Se^,"-*  '=^^-f"'  ^tten- 

autobiography"^ JOHN  GALT,  ESQ. 

"  A  wnrt  ^f        "  ^  "'"  ^  ''"""''  "nvarnished  tale  deliver  " 
re^r^^^t^™--!;^^;'^--.  i^e^O^   page  i^ In  illustration  of  the 
decidedly  the  happiest  effort  Mr.  Ga     Ins  marti  .  ''"/."'""'''^e  of  fiction.    This   s 
.    Mr.  Gait's  book  will  be  read  bv  el  v    '"'""   J--^^"'  ■^^''"^"'if  Magazine 
interest  and  amusement    Iboundin    ^  '"'''^  f  readers.     It  is  a  work  full  nf 

J^ational  G.f.^f  ^"""'"^  ^"'^  '"-^'  «ore  useful  than  any  one  of  his  novels  _ 

es?i;^^^i!rr^f.-,^^,,^ j;- .autobio^a^  of  John  Gait."  and  is  inter 
-who.s  justly  regarded  as  one  of  tl.e  he.  V'"S"ar  character  of  the  auth^^^^ 
minous  writers  of  the  ^ge.-BostonM^' ^Itfoi:^'''  "'  °"^  °*"  '"«  "osrvolu': 

CELEBRATED  SPEECHES 

American  affairs  and  characte?-we  m«2     .1!  acceptable  collection  relate   to 

■on,  and  those  of  Chatham  which  llTfnJlT^  f  f'^'J'i  °"  American  Ta%a 

il     '°1','  '""^  "^'^  ^°°^  i'l'lispensable  for  ihe^ih,      °"'/^  ^'''-    "^^6  selection  is 

be  a  public  speaker.-JVa^i<„,a/  Oazett/     ^°  "■""'^  ^^  ^^^^  <=iti='en  who  would 


■WORKS  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED 


The  frequent  rearliiig  of  such  selections  from  sucli  masters,  cannot  but  prove 
advantageous  to  the  young  men  of  this  country,  where,  more  than  ni  any  other 
dependence  will  be  placed  upon  the  power  of  eUniuence  ;  an.  ^t  '^  we 'that 
good  models  should  be  furnished  to  those  who  are,  or  seek,  thus  to  sway  the 
public  mind.  Bring  along  the  great  truths  "f  ^h^  a';g''"'fi'>V"'  =i,  c^P '^j*  »' f 
style  and  it  will  soon  be  found  that  even  the  most  uninftunied  will  strike  into 
the  current  of  the  address,  and  be  carried  along  thereby.— P.  S.  GazcUe. 

Amon<'  the  great  men  in  the  intellectual  world,  who  have  astonished  and 
delighted,  charmed  and  instructed  n,ank,ud,  by  ^h^',  ^P{''"''"J.  P"^^^  ^"^J  '^^^ 
nificence  of  their  oratory,  none  stand  higher  than  Chatham,  Burke,  Erskine  and 
Mackintosh.  The  speeches  contained  in  this  volume  are  splendid  specnnens  of 
rich,  ornate,  powerful,  and  argumentative  oratory,  and  no  one  .P?_^ff;''f.'"  ^.^''.^ 
leas  degree  a  love  for  intellectual  grandeur,  can  read  them  ^^''.\hout  f.^l.ng  his 
heart  glow  with  admiration,  and  have  his  soul  animated  with  a  zeal  for  the 
liberty  of  all  mankind.— Pcn«. //(^uirer. 

Thi's  volume  contains  some  of  the  speeches  of  these  great  -"fters  of  English 
Flnouence  sneeches  which,  whether  we  refer  to  the  momentous  character  ot 
fheiTtopics  thc'ir  pow-r  of  thought  and  display  of  learning,  or  their  charms  of 
style  and  -races  of  diction,  will  serve  as  models  for  public  speaking,  and  sources 
of  instruction!  political,  intellectual  and  moral,  to  all  future  ages.-CAartoto 
Courier. 

AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  SPIRIT  AND  INFLUENCE  OF 
THE  REFORMx\TION.  A  work  which  obtained  the  prize  on  the 
following  question  proposed  by  the  National  Institute  of  France:— 
"What  has  been  the  influence  of  the  Reformation  by  Luther,  on 
the  political  situation  of  the  different  states  of  Europe,  and  on  the 
progress  of  knowledge!"  By  C.  Villers,  sometime  professor  of 
philosophy  in  the  University  of  Gottingen.  Translated  from  the 
French.  With  an  Introductory  Essay,  by  Samuel  Miller,  D.  D. 
Professor  in  the  Theological  Seminary  at  Princeton,  N.  J. 

The  National  Institute  of  France  proposed  the  f«""^''"f  .f// P;"'^,^,'^":;,^^"^"; 
'■What  has  been  the  influence  of  the  Reformation,  by  Luther,  on  the  Po>'»ca 
situation  of  the  dilferent  states  of  Europe,  and  on  the  progress  of  know  edge  ? 
Among  the  competitors  was  C.  Villers,  Wofessor  of  Pliilosophy,  .^^^^^^^^ 
sitv  of  Gottin-en   and  to  him  the  prize  was  adjudged.  Vi  ler»  was  not  an  eccie 
8  astic  or  sectar  an  but  a  philosopher,  and  treats  the  subject  in  a  philosophical 
manner      Those  who  are  interested  in  tracing  the  causes  that  have  g>ven  rfirec- 
tion  to  the  course  of  human  events,  will  be  richly  rewarded  by  a  perusal  of  this 
Essay. 

THE  CELEBRATED  BLUE  BOOK. 
A  register  of  all  officers  and  agents,  civil,  military,  and  naval, 
in  the  s^'ervice  of  the  United  States,  with  the  names,  force  and  con- 
dition of  all  ships  and  vessels  belonging  to  the  United  States,  and 
when  and  where  built;  together  with  a  correct  list  of  the  Presi- 
dents,  Cashiers,  and  Directors  of  the  United  States  Bank  and  its 
Branches,  to  which  is  appended  the  names,  and  compensation  ot 
all  printers  in  any  way  employed  by  Congress,  or  any  department 
or  office  of  Government.  Prepared  at  the  Department  of  State, 
by  William  A.  Weaver. 

"A  Senator  in  Congress-we  believe  it  was  Mr.  Leigh  of  Virginia-pro- 
nounced  the  said  Blue  Book-which  heretofore,  by  the  by,  has  been  a  sealed 
volume  to  the  public  at  Targe,  and  only  accessible  to  members  of  ^o"f/f|  ^  h<; 
most  significant  commentary  extant  on  the  <^^o"ft>t»t'0""f  »';'.«  United  SUtes 
And  in  one  sense  it  is  indeed  so  :  for  it  exhibits  the  Executive,  or  patronage  and 
office-dispensing  power,  in  a  light  that  may  very  well  make  ""^  t^'mWe  «^  f  "^ 
independence  of  the  other  branches  of  the  government.  As  a  P""}!  "' ^y""^'"^' 
hSe^not  less  than  as  a  book  in  which  much  and  ^f 'P"^ '''^°™^^^^t'\^° 
be  found,  concerning  the  practical  operation  and  agents  of  the  government,  vve 


_^JLi^EY  &  BIDDLK 


masters.  Contracters,  &c.  &c    whirh  J    f -'y  '-"""y  "^  Oflicers,   AKents    Post 
E-vecutive.-JV:  r.  ^]nerican:'         '^  <=o"«titute  the  real  standi'ng  Srmy'of  the 

bet";ih''a^;,.'^of''r.ry^.Sre''r^;;,''i,t'^{},?."  f  i'^"  «^  "^  Blue  BooK.    It  should 
executive  patron  age- 1^.  *•  Ga!"«^!''  ^"'''''  ^'^"''-    J^t  is  a  fearful  account  if 

AN  ADDRESS  TO  THE  YOTTlvr    k    t 

of  Essays  on  Decision  of  Character         '     ^  •^°''''  ^"^™^'  ^"t^^'' 

to  whom  it  is  addresseTiifsw' ,,/,?'''"  «">^»'i"n  of  that  interestin.  S 
perusal;  but  his  essay  on  ' 'DeclXn  nfpf'''' ^""'^y  of  careful  and  epeated 
young,"  should  be  the  compa^iTo,is  of  an  .n"""  ^"'^  t^^  "Address  Ke 
intellectual  and  moral  impro'vem^liL^^li/^^^^'^^P^^^^^        ^'^^  ^^^  desirous  of 

PICTURES  OF  PRIVATE  LIFE. 

SECOND   SERIES. 

"Th?aimtT  ''"™^«^^'  -d  The  P™  o.  P^.s,,«. 

these 'Ifdrabfe  It KVs\7at:^'f„'°,!,'Jf-'  '-"^  ^^'^"  ^  -"-•  "v  offering 

S.:r^^S^  -^-'' '--  -^--"il^lS^ss  ^^-:i^S  I!!! -f 

Of  liJI'^i^.r^S  ''Z  '^^^o^'^^^^^rT  °^  "^'^  -«■  -vin.  world  •  a„d 
relish;  they  are  deli„eateTnsmprandoftP-'h  "'^^'"'''"S  to  apVecTaTe  and 
powertul  moral  efTecV'-TaWsM^Ztnl  ''^autiful  language!  and  with  a 

.o;7of^  v°?ir,^e';  fo  e'^hrbVt'^tU^£Cenc^^  'T  -^^  '«  —  '^  '"  P-™ote  the 
scenes  and  characters  visible  h/evey^dav  life  °nnV''i  ^"'^-  ''^^  =>  delineation  of 

i-pro;^,g'X'tara'!fd^;trarraf,Tr!f  ''^  Pf---^  -'>>-'  affecting  and 
most  earnestly  recommend  itr'-Scot!A'>L'^°"''^  '^'^'''  particularly,  woufd  we 

intere:t;:;y'^S^1n^';;il^"^^r:i^:^J:^"f'- °^---ders  to  this  very 
■nsure  the  anxious  attention  of  al   who  ^n.^i"?"  '''^""°'  *"«''  t°  entertain   anj 
ments  conveyed  must  recommend  it  ,n  ^Z       k  P^^'""'  "'^'''^  the  moral  s^nti 
wuh  amusement.     The  work  is  diso  emhl  r  >  ";'^°.^^'^li  to  combine  instruction 
P.ece  portrait  of  the  heroine  o^onfof    hi  'a  if  w,''''.''™"^'  "'^^"^'f"'  f™ '  ^s 
Of  the  vo]ame."~Cambridffe  Chronicle.  '  ''^""^  '"  '^^^If  worth  the  price 

S-"- "'■  tnu^^t  be  virtuous,  there  win  be  maVvin','.'''''/"]?^  ■  ''"'^  ^^^ile  men  wUl 

^^i^^"?^^t;;!;^rj-y?^ir------^ 

J^^^^ni:y'^|;^!^^^-"--e^-^th  tl.  history  of  an  inveterate  bachelor 


r 


■WORKS  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED 


great  revolution  in  sentiment  is  accomplished  by  the  power  of  female  charms, 
by  an  exhibition  of  the  loveliness  of  female  character,  and  by  the  force  of  rea- 
son—at least  such  are  tlie  conclusions  of  the  autlior.— PAf'Zarf.  Oaz. 

It  is,  of  course,  a  love  story,  and  such  an  one  as  could  only  emanate  from  a 
French  writer — light,  entertaining,  and  with  an  excellent  moral.  An  inveterate 
bachelor  is  reclaimed— his  hatred  towards  the  female  sex  is  changed  into  ad- 
miration, and  eventually  he  marries.  This  great  revolution  in  sentiment  is  ac- 
complished by  the  fotee  of  female  charms— by  an  exhibition  of  the  loveliness  of 
the  female  character.  The  book  should  be  read  not  only  by  bachelors,  but  by  un- 
married ladies— they  may  derive  instruction  from  its  'pB.gea.— Saturday  Ev.  Post. 


} 


BEAUTIES  OF  ROBERT  HALL. 

If  Robert  Hall  wrote  comparatively  little,  what  he  did  write  bears  the  impress 
of  genius,  united  with  piety.  He  was  a  luminary  of  the  first  order,  and  it  is 
delightful  to  feel  the  influence  of  his  beams.  To  those  who  cannot  obtain  his 
whole  works,  we  recommend  this  choice  selection,  which  certainly  contains 
many  beauties. — Episcopal  Recorder. 

The  "  Beauties  of  Robert  Hall,"  which  have  just  been  published  by  Key  &  Bid- 
die,  contain  selections  from  his  various  writing.  They  are  beautiful  specimens 
of  chastened  and  pure  composition,  and  are  rich  in  sentiment  and  principle. 
These  extracts  contain  much  useful  matter  for  reflection  and  meditation,  and 
may  be  perused  by  the  old  and  the  young,  the  grave  and  the  gay,  the  learned 
and  the  illiterate,  with  advantage.  We  have  rarely  seen  in  so  small  a  space  so 
much  powerful  thought  as  is  exhibited  in  this  little  volume.— JSostoa  Ev.  Oaz. 

SKETCHES   BY   MRS.  SIGOURNEY. 

Comprising-  six  tales.  The  Father— Legend  of  Oxford— The 
Family  Portrait — Oriana — The  Intemperate,  and  the  Patriarch. 

It  is  the  hish  prerogative  of  women  to  win  to  virtue— it  is  the  praise  of  Mrs. 
Sigourney,  that  her  prerogative  has  been  exercised  far  beyond  the  domestic  cir- 
cle. The  influences  of  her  mind  have  been  felt  and  acknowledged  wherever 
English  Literature  finds  a  welcome.  These  Sketches  have  been  sought  after 
with  avidity,  by  those  who  would  profit  by  the  most  delightful  means  of  im- 
provement.—  U.  S.  Oazette. 

Mrs.  Sigourney  has  a  moral  object  in  each  of  her  interesting  fictions,  which 
she  pursues  with  constant  attention  and  efttiCt.—JVdtional  Oazette. 

The  Tales  and  Sketches  need  no  recommendation  as  the  talents  of  the  au- 
thoress, in  this  branch  of  literature,  are  well  and  favourably  known— they  will 
be  read  with  great  interest. — Saturday  Ev.  Post. 

The  Sketches  before  us  are  worthy  of  the  enticing  form  in  which  they  appear 
—Mrs.  Sigourney  is  a  writer  of  great  purity,  taste  and  power  ;  she  seldom  exag- 
gerates incidents:  is  simple  and  unambitious  in  her  diction;  and  possesses  that 
magical  influence,— which  fixes  the  attention,  even  in  a  recital  of  ordinary 
events.  Her  sentiments  are  touching  and  true,  because  they  spring  from  the 
holy  source  of  an  unhackneyed  heart.  They  will  add  a  virtuous  strength  to  the 
heart  of  every  reader,  as  well  as  be  an  ornament  to  the  library  of  the  owner.— 
Commercial  Intelligencer. 

To  parents  the  work  particularly  commends  itself,  and  has  only  to  be  known 
to  be  eagerly  patronised.  Young  Ladies  may  learn  a  valuable  lesson  from  the 
story  of  the  "Family  Portrait;"  one  which  they  will  not  be  likely  soon  to  forget. 
—  Ponlson's  Daily  advertiser. 

This  is  a  beautiful  volume  in  every  respect— the  style  of  its  execution,  its  en- 
graving which  teaches  with  the  force  of  truth,  and  its  contents,  are  alike  excel- 
lent. The  graceful  simplicity,  good  taste,  classic  imagery  and  devotional  spirit, 
which  distinguish  Mrs.  Sigourney's  poetry,  are  happily  blended  and  presented  in 
living  forms  in  the  prosaic  "  Sketches"  before  us.  In  this  department  of  letters, 
as  in  poetry,  she  will  be  read  with  interest  and  delight,  be  introduced  by  Chris- 
tian parents  to  their  children  as  an  accomplished  guide  and  teacher,  and  receive 
the  well  merited  commendation  of  Vnowsaa&s.— Southern  Religious  Telegraph. 


FRANCIS  BERRIAN,  OR  THE  MEXICAN  PATRIOT,  by 

Timothy  Flint,  Esq. 

This  is  an  all  absorbing  novel,  we  think  Mr.  Flint's  best.— JV.  Y.  American. 

.  —      —    — 


BY   KEY   8c    BIDDLE. 


THE  YOUNG  MAN'S  SUNDAY  BOOK: 
A  practical  manual  of  the  christian  duties  of  piety,  benevolence 
and  self  government;  prepared  with  particular  reference  to  the 
formation  of  the  manly  character  on  the  basis  of  religious  principle 
by  the  author  of  the  Young  Man's  own  Book. 

„Ji!J^  'f  ""^  "*"  '?T  useful  little  volumes  that  will  find  its  way  throuch  the 
world  pleasing  and  doing  good  wherever  it  may  go.  It  professes  to  be  a 'M-innnl 
of  the  Christian  duties  of  piety,  benevolence,  and%clfgoCnnen  prepared  wth 
nil^'^T^""  ?'"  f"™f '""  "fa  manly  character  on  the  basis  of  rengionprnc^ 
pie.'  It  disclai.ns  all  sectarian  views,  or  the  desire  to  make  proselytes  ftranv 
party  ;  desiririg  but  to  ditfuse  something  of  the  spirit  and  practke  of  cKani^v 
among  the  rising  generation,  and  to  establish  as  widely  a^lpossTb^e  Uiose  pdnci 
pies  of  virtue  and  goodness  whid.  all  men  profess  to  respect  -Pe«n.  Inguh-er 

Pviii?»n,'oT'"'''^,°'""°''^l^"'^.'^''"''""^'^^*'<^S'a"disfullofusefuIpreceptsand 
excellent  admonitions.— CAns««a;t  GaieHe.  f"""" 

o,,^!^''"^  "?  ''f^^  V-  entire-but  the  evangelical  sentiments  and  ability 
plnl  ./".P^'^'  °1."  "'■'"'"  7"  ^''^'^  examined,  commend  it  to  public  favour  ad 
especially  to  the  attention  of  young  men.  to  whom  it  may  be  a  useful  and  valua 
ble  counsellor.  It  contains  in  a  series  of  essays  of  moderate  length,  a  summaAr 
of  Christian  duty  rather  than  doctrine,  drawn  from  the  writings  of  those  whose 
names  command  respect  throughout  the  Christian  world.  Its  design  is  noble-it 
IS  to  establish  young  men  in  the  observance  of  those  grand  principles  of  virtue 
ad  goodness,  which  the  holy  Scriptures  enforce  wifh  the  sanctions  of  God's 

Xrj'™^;^;:  ^" """-  ''•^  p'°^^"^  ^^  ^^<^"  -  ^^^  ^--^  -spect.-..../..™ 

of'^pl^r"  n'^^  -^^"'f'  ^'""^"'i  f  ".f  *'  ="  P'-actical  Manual  of  the  Christian  duties 
of  Piety,  Benevolence,  and  Self-government,  prepared  with  particular  reference 
to  the  formation  of  the  manly  character  on  the  basis  of  Religious  Principle  it 
professes  to  be  a  Summary  of  duty,  rather  than  of  doctrine.  Its  articles  are 
generally  short,  and  have  been  drawn  from  the  writings  of  men  whose  names 
command  respect  throughout  the  Christian  world.  It  fs  admirably  suhed  both 
in  Its  character  and  form  (being  a  small  pocket  volume  of  .3(J0  pages)  for  a  pre 
sent  to  one  just  verging  to  manhood,  whether  a  friend,  an  apprentice  or  a  son  • 
and  such  a  book  as  is  likely  to  be,  not  only  looked  al,  but  looked  info  and  that ' 
not  only  on  Sunday,  but  daily  ;  till  its  contents  become  familiar.- CAr.  Spectator: 
A  book  that  should  be  possessed  by  every  young  man  It  is  a  spnuel  tn  thn 
Young  Man's  Own  Book.-Saturday  Ev.  Post.        "  ^"^    '°  *'"' 

FOLCHETTO  MALASPINA,  an  historical  Romance  of  the 
twelfth  century,  by  the  author  of  "  Libilla  Odaletta,"  and  trans- 
lated from  the  Italian  by  Daniel  J.  Desmond,  Esq. 

The  story  is  one  of  deep  interest,  and  the  translator  has  allowed  nothin? 
hereof  to  escape  ;  of  the  fidelity  of  the  work  we  cannot  speak,  havhit  no  acce"! 
goodl^"i:GiL«".'  ^'  ^  novel,  whether  original  or  translated,  t&vvork  is 
It  is  emphatically  a  fanciful  and  engaging  work,  and  no  one  can  sit  down  to 
wh-^rv'^n  t''r'\  being  chained  by^?s  magical  influence  to  an  attention 
which  will  be  kept  actively  alive  until  the  fast  chapter.     In  this  there  is  im 
exaggeration,-u  IS  a  novel  to  make  the  reader  feel,-to  have  his  curiositv  a  d 
sensibilities  awakened  -and  to  produce  upon  the  heart  those  strik  n  °  inwes 
s.ons,  which  can  only  be  excited  by  nature  when  portraved  by  the  encha  u inl 
descriptions  of  a  master.    The  scenes,  the  characters,  the'dialogues  and  the  in" 
cidents  are  so  graphically  sketched,  and  forciblv  delineated,  that  we  are  com 
pelled  to  admit  that  the  production  is  of  a  more  ihan  ordinary  character 

Our  space  will  not  admit  of  pointing  out  particular  beauties,  or  interestino. 

passages;  to  the  work  itself  we  must  refer  our  readers  for  a  rich  inteUec   lal 

banquet,  which  is  only  to  be  obtained  by  its  perusal  i"ieueciuai 

In  dismissing  this  production,  we  remark  that  it  is  beautifully  got  up  and  will 

form  a  graceful  ornament  to  the  most  classical  library.-Pe«„.  Inquirer 

From  parts  which  we  have  read,  of  Mr.  Des.mond's  translation,  we  have  drawn 
a  very  favourable  inference  concerning  the  execution  of  the  whole-  and  we 
know  that  Malasp.na's  pages  are  held  in  high  estimation  by  competent  European 
and  American  critics  We  have  noted  in  the  Paris  Revue  Encyclopidique  a 
strong  encomium  on  the  works  of  this  Italian  ^^ov^^\\st.-J^atwnaI Oazetie 


17 


"WORKS    PUBLISHED    BY    KEY  &   BIDDLE. 


TODD'S  JOHNSON'S  DICTIONARY  OF  THE  ENGLISH 
LANGUAGE.  To  which  is  added  a  copious  Vocabulary  of  Greek, 
Latin,  and  Scriptural  proper  names,  divided  into  syllables,  .and 
accented  for  pronunciation.  By  Thomas  Rees,  L.  L.  D.,  F.  R.  S.  A. 
The  above  Dictionary  will  make  a  beautiful  pocket  volume,  same 
size  of  Young  Man's  Own  Book,  illustrated  by  a  likeness  of  John- 
son and  Walker. 

The  editor  states  that  "  in  compiling  the  work  he  has  endeavoured  to  furnish 
such  an  epitome  of  Mr.  Todd's  enlarged  and  valuable  edition  of  Dr.  Johnson's 
Dictionary,  as  would  enable  the  generality  of  persons  to  understand  the  most 
approved  American  and  English  authors,  and  to  write  and  speak  the  language 
with  propriety  and  elegance.  The  most  correct  definitions  have  been  given  in  a 
condensed  form,  and  especial  care  has  been  taken  to  indicate  the  classical  and 
fashionable  pronunciation  of  every  word."  The  style  of  printing  is  really  very 
handsome  ;  and  the  embellishments,  consisting  of  an  engraving  of  Johnson  and 
another  of  Walker,  enhance  the  value  of  the  edition.  It  is  neatly  bound  and 
would  be  an  ornament  to  the  study  of  any  young  lady  or  gentleman,  while  the 
traveller,  on  his  summer  tour,  would  find  it  an  appropriate  companion  for  his 
guide  book  and  Stage  Register.— Boston  Traveller. 

This  really  beautiful  and  useful  little  work  should  be  possessed  by  all  who 
wish  to  spell  and  write  the  English  language  correctly.  The  publishers  have 
rendered  it  so  attractive  in  its  appearance  as  to  be  an  ornament  to  the  parlour 
centre  table.  It  will  add  very  little  weight  to  the  trunk  of  the  traveller,  and 
will  often  relieve  him  from  painful  embarrassment. —  U.  S.  Gazette. 

This  is  the  age  of  improvement.  The  simple  elements  of  education  so  long 
lying  in  forbidding  print  and  binding,  are  now  appearing  as  they  ought,  in  the 
finest  type  and  most  beautiful  and  ornamental  form.  The  Pocket  Dictionary 
published  by  Key  and  Biddle  deserves  to  be  commended  to  the  public  generally, 
not  only  for  the  beauty  of  its  e.xecution,  but  for  the  intrinsic  merit  it  possesses. — 
Charleston  Courier. 

This  beautiful  little  Dictionary  should  be  the  companion  of  every  young  lady 
and  gentleman  when  reading  or  writing,  whether  at  home  or  abroad. — JV.  Y. 
Commercial  Advertiser. 


THE  MORAL  TESTAMENT  OF  MAN. 

Key  &  Biddle  have  just  issued  under  this  title,  a  beautiful  little  volume  made 
up  of  the  sayings  of  the  wise  and  good,  in  olden  and  modern  times.  These 
apothegms  are  all  upon  most  interesting  subjects,  each  one  carrying  with  it  a 
wholesome  as  well  as  a  most  agreeable  influence.  Tliis  little  volume  is  to  the 
mind  and  heart  what  a  flower-garden  is  to  the  eye  and  nose.  It  delights  and 
regales. — Commercial  Herald. 

Good  taste,  judgment,  and  a  love  of  doing  good,  must  have  influenced  and 
directed  the  industrious  compiler.  This  little  selection  of  precious  thoughts 
has  been  printed  and  bound  in  a  style  suited  to  the  worth  of  the  contents — 
apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of  silver. —  U.  S.  Gazette. 


MRS.  SOMERVILLE'S  CONNEXION  OF  THE  PHYSICAL 

SCIENCES. 

The  style  of  this  astonishing  production  is  so  clear  and  unaffected,  and  con- 
veys with  so  much  simplicity  so  great  a  mass  of  profound  knowledge,  that  it 
should  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  every  youth,  the  moment  he  has  mastered  the 
general  rudiments  of  education. — Quarterly  Review. 


OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  CHARACTER  AND  CUL- 
TURE OF  THE  EUROPEAN  VINE,  during  a  residence  of 
five  years  in  the  vine-growing  districts  of  France,  Italy,  and  Swit- 
zerland, by  S.  I.  Fisher,  to  which  is  added,  the  Manual  of  Swiss 
Vigneron,  as  adopted  and  recommended  by  the  Agricultural  Socie- 
ties of  Geneva  and  Berne,  by  Mons.  Bruin  Chappius,  to  which  is 
superadded,  the  art  of  wine  making,  by  Mr.  Bulos,  member  of  the 
Institute  of  France. 


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